


Sapphire Most Rough

by CaptainTarthister



Series: Blue Awakening [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Art, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Body Image, Dubious Consent, Eventual Smut, F/M, Inspiration, Mystery Woman - Freeform, Sexual Harassment, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-03 23:35:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 55,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10261559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainTarthister/pseuds/CaptainTarthister
Summary: Jaime Lannister believes he's found his muse but with only the vaguest of descriptions and stuck at home with a broken arm and a busted ankle, there's not much he can do. Brienne's dreams of returning to school are practically at her fingertips when certain events knock her off the path, possibly for good.___Rated M for language, sex scenes and violence





	1. Caged and Cranky

After tucking the children in, Margaery floated to the bedroom. She opened the door and paused by it, her eyes warm. Tyrion was in bed, mismatched eyes peering through a pair of spectacles as he frowned over the financial reports of Casterly Conglomerate.

He worked as Jaime’s business manager on the side, at his brother’s insistence, but mainly, he was chief financial officer of the family empire. Tywin remained stubbornly the CEO, refusing to turn over the reins to his more-than-capable dwarf son. Tyrion wasn’t angling for the position though yes, he thought that someday his father should turn it over. If and when he became CEO, that meant more time away from family and he wouldn’t be able to handle Jaime’s finances anymore.

Turning a page of the report and still looking at it, Tyrion said, “You’re hovering, angel.”

Margaery grinned and shut the door. “I know that at times there’s a lot we take to bed with us but I didn’t think I would have to worry about piles and piles of papers.” She sat at the foot of the bed and took one folder. She leafed through it absently.

Tyrion made a notation on the page he was reading. “Just give me a few more minutes.” He glanced at her and smirked. It didn’t make him any more handsome but he clearly wanted her. Margaery stared back at him with exaggerated innocence before sliding off her silk robe from one shoulder. She was wearing a pink satin nightie underneath. “Or twenty seconds.”

She giggled and shoved the folders out of the bed and onto the floor, uncaring of the mess. Tyrion chuckled, wrote some more then carelessly tossed the folder away. She crawled to him, loving the twinkle in his mismatched eyes of vivid green and midnight black. Tyrion spread his arms wide on the pillows, raising his chin to receive her kiss.

“Wife comes before work,” she playfully chided him between gentle presses of their lips and quick swipes of tongue. As she spoke, she started unbuttoning his shirt.

“Doesn’t she always?” Tyrion said as she pushed his shirt open. He did not have the body of a romantic hero. In fact his tummy was already pudgy. He was only in his thirties but because of his bow legs and too-heavy top, standing and walking were becoming difficult. But there was no other man Margaery would want, nor love. Yes, his appearance hardly inspired women to fantasize but he was generous, kind, always put her and the children first. Hard as it was to imagine, sex with Tyrion Lannister was also the best Margaery had ever had.

She rose a little on her knees to shrug off her robe to reveal her nightie. It was pink lavished with white lace. It wasn’t very new and it had been months since it was last worn. They had sex often enough but since Jaime’s accident a month ago, they had been too tired. The twins also had chicken pox together and they were not happy about it. The couple had their hands overflowing.

Margaery lay on her back and Tyrion settled on top of her. He was a dwarf but was heavy, especially since he was sitting on her stomach though doing his best not to put more weight on her than necessary. Their mouths met in a kiss of relief and hunger. She moaned happily as his hands cupped her breasts, squeezing the full mounds through the silk.

“Gods, Marge, it’s been so long,” Tyrion groaned, his lips tracing her throat.

“Yes,” she whispered, lacing her fingers through his pale curls. Looking in his eyes, she confessed, “I missed us.”

Tyrion smiled at her tenderly then kissed her. “Angel, tonight I’m all yours.”

She squeezed him. “Goody.”

They helped each other out of their clothes. As soon as they were free, they reached for each other and kissed, caressed. Margaery was moaning lustily as Tyrion tugged her nipples deep into his mouth when his cellphone rang. She whined as he released her nipple with loud, wet pop, wincing as cool air lanced at the swollen tip. It tightened painfully. As a look of uncertainty crossed his face, she grabbed him by the ears.

“Tyrion Lannister, if you don’t fuck me tonight, you are not going to fuck me for another month.”

Tyrion looked absolutely horrified and nodded. He lowered his head back to her breasts to resume his kisses. Murmuring his name in approval, she gently urged his head lower and he complied. She felt him smirk against the taut flesh of her belly as she nudged him lower, until his breath was feathering her cunt.

Margaery cried out as he spread her and licked her clit. Her eyes closed, her mouth fell open to pant out his name. “Tyr—“ she began when her phone rang.

Tyrion, annoyed, raised his head. Margaery opened her eyes and together watched her cellphone vibrating across the bedside table.

“Who the fuck calls this late?” Tyrion demanded.

Margaery sighed and looked at him. “Your brother.”

The ringing stopped. As Margaery spread her legs, Tyrion’s cellphone rang again.

“Let’s go fuck in the bathroom,” Tyrion told her.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “We are _not_ going to fuck in the shower. Damn it!” She glared at his phone.

“If we fuck in the bathroom, we can tell him we didn’t hear!”

Margaery wailed, “Look, I said you must fuck me but what if something’s happened to him?”

“Again? Jaime is an idiot but he’s not stupid enough to get into another accident.”

They exchanged a look and sighed. Margaery sat up and covered herself. Tyrion glared at his phone and answered. “What is it this time, Jaime?”

 

 

“The genius housekeeper you hired fucking rearranged my stuff!” Jaime was raging at Tyrion a half hour later. His eyes were red and his hair a mess of waves. One side of his face was creased from the pillow.

“When Margaery insisted on hiring help to come over once a week to fix things up, I was specific that my supplies be left untouched.” Jaime gestured wildly at his shelf. “Look at this!”

Tyrion did look. In his opinion, the items were at least in order instead of the jumbled, shoved-together mess that Jaime was wont to do. His easel stands were pushed together in the corner. His sketchpads piled neatly on the desk, his paintbrushes in a can holder. The housekeeper had also put his painting supplies, charcoal in separate shelves.

 He watched as his brother slumped heavily on a stool, looking like a defeated lion with his right arm in a cast and rumpled t-shirt and boxer shorts. Brushing his hand impatiently through his hair, Jaime looked at him.

“I’m sorry to drag you out of bed like this. But I really wanted to work tonight. I can’t work in a place where everything has an assigned spot and looks so fucking pristine. I need a place where I can fucking spill and do what I want.”

Since the accident, Jaime had transformed from frustrated to angry. He was often shouting and cursing at the cyclists that had caused him to break his right arm. Drawing and painting were his outlets and with his right hand sidelined now for a month, Jaime had become the equivalent of a desperate, caged lion. Tyrion knew that he and Margaery had a screaming match just the other day. The cause of it was she caught Jaime attempting to slice his cast open to free his arm. She said that the bones weren’t set yet. Little did she know it was the spark that would have the dynamite going off.

With Jaime missing an arm, his loft had become a pile of dirty dishes, takeout boxes with rooting food,  floors littered with art supplies. A housekeeper had been coming in the last two weeks while Jaime was having his check-up and therapy. He didn’t have complaints about the service at first as she stuck mainly to cleaning the floors and righting the furniture. Apparently, she had crossed to forbidden territory.

Being unable to do anything wasn’t the only thing that made Jaime, well, mean. He had been ranting about a tall, blond broad that was the true cause of his accident in the hospital. “Massive wench,” he growled “Wouldn’t stay still. Made me chase her.”

Tyrion and Margaery couldn’t make sense of it. When they pressed Jaime a few days later, he glared at them and said nothing. It confirmed their worst fear: he had been drinking again.

They searched through his place and trash but there were no empty bottles or alcohol bottles. Tyrion took care of his credit card bills and there was no record of a purchase there—in fact, Jaime had not been using any of his cards for a while. He made withdrawals, averaging to seven hundred a month. But it was for food and art supplies, maybe. Still, they didn’t have a complete picture. They weren’t with him at all hours.

Tyrion was considering having Jaime tailed when his brother called one day. “I need your help,” he said. “I need you to look for somebody.”

The somebody, from Jaime’s description, was a tall, blonde woman from Falcon Park on the day of his accident. There was nothing impossible about being a Lannister, but there were doors that could be impenetrable. The Falcon Park Services refused to surrender footage unless it had something to do with a police matter or with a search warrant. Jaime couldn’t really go anywhere—he had a broken arm and a sprained ankle. Getting stonewalled had made him even more impossible to deal with.

Now Tyrion watch Jaime mentally berating himself. It was just like him  to blame himself over things he had little control of. So he saw a girl. Chased after her and got run over. Unfortunate that he couldn’t do much now but Tyrion was strangely glad.

“You know we can always change the cleaning service,” Tyrion told him.

Jaime sighed. “And I know this could have waited until morning.”

“Well. I’m here.” He shrugged.

Jaime stared off into space. “I really wanted to do it, Tyrion. Paint her.”

Tyrion held his breath, waiting for him to elaborate.

“The girl in the park. Gods, I can’t believe there’s nothing I can do.”

“I’m sorry I’m not much help.”

Jaime managed a small, tired smile. “You tried.”

“Look,” Tyrion cleared his throat. “I know you’ve been struggling. But I’m glad that this—“ he gestured at the cast—“happened. Well, we could have done without the broken limbs but Jaime, you. . .something happened in you to act that way. That’s a good thing.”

“Is it now.”

“It snapped you out of your funk, for one thing. And now you need to paint.”

Jaime held up his right hand. “Guess which finger I’m holding up.”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

He sighed and put his hand down. “I can’t stand this, Tyrion. I have to be out there. Looking for her. I should at least be trying to draw her.”

“Judging from your description, I don’t know how. You describe her as being blond and tall. They’re not exactly rare.”

“There’s no woman as tall as that wench. I didn’t get a good look at her face because she was far but I don’t believe she’s very attractive.” Jaime was thoughtful then nodded to himself. “Just a feeling.”

“A tall blond who’s not very attractive. Still not much to go on.”

Jaime shrugged. “How hard can it be to find a diamond in a bag of nuts?”


	2. Working Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne meets Jaime.  
> Sort of.

King City was dead in the summer. Due to the heat and sunlight that could last for as long as twenty hours during the day, its inhabitants would go to cooler regions such as Riverrun, or even as far as Winterfell. The rich would head for the Stormlands, with its beaches and salty, balmy air. They still got that coveted tan but could still sleep without difficulty.

Those who remained behind were grumpy, disgruntled employees who had to drag themselves out of their airconditioned homes to head for the too-bright, sweltering streets. The subway was a cesspool of scents, from classic, good ol’ sweat to the unholy rank of hippies. Brienne had mastered the skill of holding her breath during these rides else she’ll be on the receiving end of an olfactory knockout.

Her t-shirt was sticking to her back as she took her card from the employee slot and stuck it in the bundy clock. Like most Mop Busters employees, she worked part-time, covering the morning to early afternoon shift. Her day didn’t end at two o’clock, however. She had only an hour to go back to her apartment, change and get her cello to teach her one student, Ramsay Bolton. His lessons were for two times a week, two hours each. Her job at Mop Busters fell on the same day as these lessons. On other days, she worked the afternoon shift at Ruff N’ Roll, a mobile pet grooming service.

Cleaning houses and apartments was back-breaking work. It was murder having to clear the in-between tiles in bathrooms of grime and dirt that had been there for years, for one. Or when doing a total clean-up, from top to bottom of a place. Brienne had been working for a month with the service, paired with Sansa Stark. So far, they had seen enough disgusting bathrooms to give them nightmares for the rest of their lives. Brienne didn’t know which was worse—having to deal with a bathroom that witnessed a diarrhea firebomb all over or a bathroom in the aftermath of a frat party, with vomit puddles, poop, piss, sometimes even blood, used condoms, used anything all over stinking heavily of human. The president of the fraternity explained that it was a send-off party for their graduating members and things had gotten wilder than usual. To his credit, he looked embarrassed. And even better credit to him, he tipped Brienne and Sansa seventy dollars. Each.

In the changing room, Brienne pulled off her sweaty t-shirt and replaced it with the black, round-neck t-shirt with the logo of a smiling mop. Summer was one of the reasons she was thankful for having small tits. Slight swells on her wide chest, they were too small for a regular bra. Having no need for that extra layer of cloth in this weather gave her some comfort. She was already wearing navy shorts, and of course, sneakers.

She put her clothes in her locker then went to the laundry pick-up area. Each Mop Busters employee had a jumpsuit for heavy-duty cleaning that involved a whole lot of disgusting unmentionables. They were required to bring it on every shift, and returned afterward even when unused.

Each shift began with a meeting before the pairs were given their assignments. Their boss was Harald Karstark, a distant relative, according to Sansa. “Very distant,” she emphasized to Brienne once. Brienne took her seat next to Sansa as a small crowd gathered around Harald. He was skinny and short, with droopy shoulders. His hair was dark auburn, with a round patch at the top of his head and a thin amount around the sides.

“For this shift, you’ll be covering three areas,” Harald began, looking at the list on his clipboard. This was how meetings began. Shifts were arranged according to areas. Except for people in charge of operations, most of the cleaners, like Sansa and Brienne, worked part-time. A lot of them were students or actors, musicians, artists. This wasn’t the only job they had.

“For Sword Drive, we have Sansa and Brienne, Olyvar and Mirelle, Grenn and Ros,” Harald announced.

“Alright!” Sansa whispered to Brienne as Harald continued reading names. “Sword Drive is the neighborhood of the young and rich with money to throw around.”

That got Brienne excited too. She really needed the money.

Ramsay Bolton would only be her student for another week before his family left for the Dreadfort for the season. She had enough saved for such a situation but as much as possible, she didn’t dip into that and lived sparingly. Besides, she still had this and the Ruff N’ Roll stint. The upside to having additional free time meant more practice with the cello.

“Do you think we’ll be cleaning the house of a famous actor or something?” Sansa’s blue eyes sparkled with excitement. Her hair was a rich, thick auburn. She was beautiful with her classic, delicate features.

Brienne’s father was good friends with Sansa’s family when he was alive. Sansa was two years younger than Brienne but they were close.

The Starks had offered her a place to stay after he died. However, this was also the time that Bran got in an accident that left him paralyzed from the waist down. Their offer was sincere but Brienne didn’t want to burden them so she declined. Besides, she was already nineteen.

“Who cares?” Brienne whispered back. “I’m only here for the money.”

“Gods, I hope we get better tips this time around,” Sansa said. “Remember that guy in Gin Alley who clearly had something illegal going on at his place? Five dollars for a  two-hour job. We should have reported him.”

Brienne remembered. The guy was gaunt and pale, with black hair and black eyes that looked at them too intensely. Mop Busters allowed for their employees to be supervised during the clean-up but sometimes, the resident would hang around just doing nothing. So they were forced to work around the person, who would then complain about being disturbed and tip badly. This was what happened to the Gin Alley guy.

“He just said we’re not to go to that room.”

“Yeah, because it’s his murder room.”

The two girls stared at each other then burst into giggles. Harald frowned at them. Sansa giggled some more while Brienne, reddening, pretended to cough. Sansa had to drag the neckline of her t-shirt up to her nose to smother her laugh.

“As I was saying,” Harald said pointedly, “we’ve switched to organic cleaning agents starting this week that are free from animal testing.” He held out a pamphlet. “Don’t forget to leave this at the houses you’ll be cleaning today. It keeps our clients informed and would also lead to more clients and more jobs with us.”

Harald dismissed them. They got up to get their assignments. There were only three trucks per shift, hence the area assignments. Today, they were off to Sword Drive with Olyvar and Mirelle, Grenn and Ros. Olyvar was a freelance photographer (“Meaning I’m often free,” he joked with some bitterness). Mirelle and Ros were actresses often in between jobs. Grenn was in law school.

Grenn got behind the wheel. Although there was still space inside the truck, the rest preferred to ride in the back, out in the open. “Just because we’re not at the beach doesn’t mean we can’t get tanned,” he pointed out. Brienne would rather ride inside the truck, not because she worried about wrinkles at twenty-five but she turned lobster-red within minutes. Still, in solidarity, she got behind with them.

Their first stop was in an elegant, high-rise building in Sword Drive. They were all apartments, small but expensive, and very easy to clean up. Each job should only be an hour long, that’s why clients were asked early on what kind of cleaning they wanted done. There was a set price to a regular job, while something like the frat party situation Sansa and Brienne did demanded higher pay. After every job, they left copies of the job order, checklist of what was done, and receipt. Sometimes tips were just left on the kitchen counter or a table by the door when the client wasn’t around. When someone supervised them, the tip came from that person. This was a little maddening at times because their work was examined then and there before tips were given. Brienne understood but it took time away from other jobs in the schedule.

For their next assignment, they were going to be a few blocks from each other. To save on gas, they would meet afterward in a designated place before driving off to the next.

Olyvar and Mirelle were dropped off first, then Sansa and Brienne. As Sansa got their supplies ready, Brienne checked the clipboard for information about their client.

“Jaime Lannister,” Brienne said, reading out loud. She frowned. “Why is that name familiar?”

“Lannisters own King City. And the rest of Westeros, I guess,” Sansa said with a shrug.

“Says here we’re to clean everywhere else but not the work slash art studio.” Brienne pulled along the trolley of her set of cleaning supplies while still reading aloud from the list of instructions and reminders. She frowned and looked at Sansa.

“What?”

“We also have to change his sheets and curtains.”

Sansa shrugged. “It’s not unusual.”

“We clean houses. We’re not maids.”

“For some people there’s no distinction. Just as long as those sheets this Lannister guy likes are ready instead of having us root and look for them, I’m okay.”

“How’s this.” Brienne’s frown deepened. “We’re also to check for any alcohol.”

“Not really unusual. It’s not like we have to remove evidence of a crime or something.”

The building was in the industrial part of Sword Drive that had become into a residential neighborhood in recent years. The structures were new or in the process of being built. But the building they were standing in front of looked old compared to the rest, but well-maintained. No rusting, no peeling paint. Old yet solid.

Brienne punched in the security code as indicated in the list. The door led right towards a short flight of stairs, with another door waiting the very top. It required another security code before the girls were inside the loft.

Minimalism was hardly Brienne’s taste but she liked what she saw here. The visible wooden at ceiling and the brick walls was an interesting combination of the industrial and rustic. The floorboards were pale brown wood. From where they stood, they could see the studio area and the kitchen. There no wall divisions, although the floors were different there. In the kitchen, the tiles were black-and-white, like in a chessboard. For the studio, she discovered, the floors were plain white tiles. The studio looked untouched and everything was in order. Brienne understood why Jaime Lannister wouldn’t want anyone touching this area.

“Brienne, we’re not supposed to go there, come on,” Sansa said, taking out her cleaning supplies from her bag.

“Right, sorry. I was curious.” Brienne’s cheeks pinked as she hurried to her side.

Sansa was in charge of the kitchen and the living room while Brienne tackled the bathroom and the bedroom. She checked the bathroom first. It wasn’t dirty although the walls and floors needed scrubbing, but it messy. She decided to do the bedroom first.

A package of fresh linens from an expensive shop was at the foot of the bed, as well as curtains. Her nose quickly picked up on the scent of lemons and soap, sweat. The combination wasn’t unpleasant but she did stumble upon first being hit by it.

Since she began cleaning apartments and houses, she thought she had become quite good in collecting information about a client. The king-sized bed indicated that Jaime Lannister was a big man. He didn’t have books on his bedside table but a couple of sketchbooks. One of them was open, a childish-looking scrawl of what appeared to be a park. She cocked her eyebrow at repeated, crooked doodles of _wench, wench, wench._

Jaime Lannister cared little for political correctness, it looked like. 

She wiped clean the table, the window sill, spraying it with a solution to make the glass gleam and spotless. She vacuumed the floor and the carpet surrounding the bed. A door to the side of the bed opened to a closet. There were some shirts hanging half-off the hangers, a small pile of discarded pants and shirts on a bench, several pairs of shoes scattered. She righted the shirts on their hangers then pushed them back to hang neatly on the rack.

There was only one way to know if the shirts on the bench had been used or not. Still, Brienne looked behind her to check. The coast was clear. She pressed her nose on the collar of the shirt. There was the scent again. Lemons. Soap. Aftershave.

Brienne knew why she did it, although she’d die if Sansa caught her. Her face and neck were extra-warm as she folded the shirt. Her hands were shaking, much like the fluttering in her stomach. The shirts had been worn and she imagined Jaime Lannister, whoever he was, rejecting one shirt after the next. He must be a perfectionist, she thought, folding the other shirts neatly. Probably off to a date. _He has to look nice, after all._ She imagined him in a park, or maybe an outdoor cafe with a date. 

She spied a hamper at the corner of the closet but she left the folded shirts on the bench. For the shoes, she knelt on the floor and crawled around, looking for the partners of a soft brown leather loafer, well-worn black running shoes, boots, sneakers. She put the paired shoes back in the shelf then vacuumed in the closet too. She wiped the surfaces of drawers and shelves.

Another thing that Brienne had learned from cleaning houses was that the bed was really an intimate place. She had learned to turn a blind eye and to wash her hands really well after accidentally touching a stiff portion of the sheet, and had learned to avoid getting any of person on areas with suspicious stains. Jaime’s pillows smelled strongly of soap and lemons. There were stains. Of course. Brienne was quick to strip his bed and replace it with fresh, clean sheets. Her cheeks got  _very_ pink.

She knew better than to do other things than clean but curiosity got the better of her. Sansa was cleaning below, humming to herself.

Brienne took a deep breath and opened a drawer.

There was a small photo of a beautiful woman. She was blond with green eyes. At first, she thought this was Jaime’s girlfriend but her hairstyle was from more than twenty years ago. Well that explained the absence of condoms in the drawer. This was his mother. Still, and she blushed upon seeing them by the lamp, there was the box of tissues and lube. _He needs to replenish the lube._

She finished arranging the new sheets on the bed, cursing the warmth spreading through her. By the time she turned her attention to the curtains, her shirt was stained with sweat and she was feeling a little light-headed. She should’ve cracked open a window,  she thought as she went downstairs.

Sansa, who was emptying the trash in the kitchen, looked at her curiously. “Whoa. What happened to you?”

Guiltily, she demanded too sharply, “What?”

Sansa was taken aback at her tone and Brienne blushed. “Sorry. But it was a little hot upstairs.”

“Yeah. You’re all red, Brienne. I thought you were burning up or something.”

“I’m okay.” Brienne pointed with her thumb over her shoulder. “I’ll see to the bathroom, okay?”

“Why don’t you have something to drink first?” Sansa got a glass from the cupboard, turned on the sink to put water there. She thrust the glass to her friend, who shook her head. “Bree, dehydration can be dangerous. And it’s not going to kill us if you use a client’s glass just this one time. Go on.”

So Brienne obeyed. Well, Sansa was right. She felt a little better. Sansa took the glass from her and washed it.

In the bathroom, Brienne put on rubber gloves and scrubbed the walls and the floors. She straightened up the contents of the medicine cabinet, noticing the painkillers in the mix. By the time she had de-clogged the drain of the sink and the shower stall thick with hair, she was feeling more herself. Her face was screwed in an expression of disgust as she dumped this icky mess in the garbage bin.

Next was the toilet. Her head was clear now but it didn’t make her any braver in facing what was in it. There was no monster at the bottom, thank the Seven. But as it went with men and toilets, there was hair. Lots and lots of hair. This was a part of the job she could _never_ get used to. 

Brienne tightened her gloves, breathed a prayer to the Seven and faced the battle against Jaime Lannister’s pubic hair collection around and under the toilet seat head-on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for leaving kudos and comments! They're so encouraging. 
> 
> I wanted to post an update yesterday but I had connectivity issues. At the moment, things are fixed so I'm firing off the latest. I hope to post another chapter tomorrow. Thank you for the wonderful feedback!
> 
> Please tell me what you think of Chapter 2!


	3. Your Life Is Chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery won't take Jaime's bullshit. Brienne gets propositioned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for finding the previous chapter funny. Now here's the latest update. There's angst but also major creepiness. When I read this again, I'm surprised Brienne didn't punch ***** in the face. 
> 
> I'm so sorry.

Two hours after Sansa and Brienne left, the door the Jaime’s loft opened. Margaery was the first to enter, followed by Jaime. He no longer had his arm in a sling. It was now lowered to his side but still wrapped. It would be another two weeks before it could be removed. His ankle had healed but he still walked with a slight limp. Doctor’s orders had him using a cane for additional support, just until he could put more weight on it without the risk of a repeat injury. It took Margaery and Tyrion yelling at him to swallow his pride and use the blasted cane.

As Jaime shuffled behind, Margaery examined the papers left on the counter. “The new service started today,” she told him, examining the receipt and checklist. “I forgot to tell you.”

Jaime sighed and sat down on the couch. He flung the cane away and put his feet up on the table. “What service?”

“A new cleaning crew. What do you think?” She asked, gesturing with her arms at the place.

He frowned. “You did instruct them never to go anywhere near the studio area?”

“Of course, as per your command, Your Impossible Highness.” Margaery went to the fridge to take out a carton of orange juice. Jaime kicked off his loafers, sighing in pleasure as his feet were able to breathe. Margaery handed him a glass of juice then went to take a seat on a chair across the table. Jaime stared at the orange drink in disgust before taking a sip. Natural, indeed. It tasted like liquefied sugar.

As they finished their drinks in silence, Jaime looked around. The service Margery hired had done a much better job, indeed. His studio was left as it was, yes, but the floors gleamed as if new. There were no dust webs in ceiling corners. The pile of newspapers and magazines under the coffee table where his feet were stacked was so neat they looked glued together.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I also had them put new sheets on your bed,” Margaery told him. At his startled expression, she explained, “Jaime, you haven’t changed them in six months. Maybe you can stand sleeping on them but it’s really disgusting.”

“How would you know I’m doing anything disgusting there?”

She took a dainty sip. “Tyrion tells me things.”

“Tyrion should just deal with my money and shut up,” He snapped.

“So you have some mobility with your arm now.” It was clearly an attempt to change the subject. But Jaime tensed, knowing what she was going to ask. His warning glance didn’t deter his goodsister from pressing, “Have you been drawing?”

“Why? You need money for groceries?”

“You know, if you could tone down the nastiness, it would halve the line of people who want to punch you in the face.”

Jaime removed his feet from the table and growled. He buried his face in his hands.

Every time he thought there would be some progress made with his heart, he got further and further derailed. As if being drunk for years was not a long enough delay. It was war, knowing the fucking bliss of one drop of alcohol on his tongue could undo him but still wanting to, willing to destroy himself just to get more. The twelve-step program was the most arduous, the most difficult thing he had ever done but Jaime knew he was far from well. He will never be well. Addiction really was a disease. Even if there was a drug to prevent him from drinking, it was useless against the sweet memory of the first swill of scotch, the burn in the throat that was beyond Seven Heavens.

Realizing that the world had moved on during the years-long alcohol daze forced him into a way of seeing and acceptance that was painful. Everything was unknown. Even Tyrion and Margaery, who refused to leave his side, were strangers. Jaime was not concerned about being forgotten. What was terrifying was the world changed so quickly that he was doomed to never make sense of it. If you couldn’t make sense of things, you didn’t know what you saw. The responsibility of the artist was to make some sense of the world, to be the conduit.

Then the accident.

Tyrion and Margaery blamed Cersei for being the cause of Jaime’s addiction. Not Jaime. She didn’t tie him and forced a bottle to his lips. He was as responsible as she was for events that led him to drink. They had paid the direst of prices. And still did.

When Jaime removed his hands from his face, Margaery was looking at him sympathetically. He knew he was an ass to her. Her delicate appearance was just that. She wasn’t mean but knew how to study an opponent and when to attack. She had an arsenal of weapons of the an extent and variety that no one, even Tyrion, couldn’t fathom. Tyrion sometimes described her as “Iron Rose,” both in admiration and wariness.

“I know you mean well in asking me,” he began, folding his hands into fists and pressing to his lips. “But you’re not helping.”

“I worry that if I don’t you’ll never try again.”

“I’m trying!”

“You doodle and complain that your work is shit, rip the pad then sleep off the rest of the day. You wake up and doodle again, say your work is shittier. It’s a fucking, miserable, endless repeat, Jaime. You’re not trying.”

“That’s my process.”

“Fuck your process.” Margaery said savagely. “Trying is knowing shit gets shittier but you still do it. Trying is hoping. Trying is not moaning and sleeping all day and complaining about clenaners touching your stuff! You’re making excuses to do shit. Tyrion told me to be careful with you but fuck that. I may be your goodsister but as your agent—“

“Ah. What, benevolence is the root of your rudeness?”

“Jaime, you pay me keep you working. I don’t coddle, I don’t coo, I shouldn’t even be bringing you fucking juice. You pay me to help you. What you’re doing,” she made a loose gesture at him, “it’s pathetic.”

“Pathetic!”

“I will never understand how it is to struggle with addiction—“

“Fucking right!”

“But when you keep using that as justification for being a shit person? What’s there to respect about you?”

“You’re itching to get fired, aren’t you?”

“That’s your choice. You are better than this, Jaime.”

Jaime grunted as he shot to his feet. Margaery remained on her seat. He staggered to the studio.

“Fight to be better.”

He turned around to look at her.

Margaery looked surprised at her own words. “I guess I still respect you a bit, Jaime.”

“That was respect?”

“You’ll take what I’ll give.” She pointed at the couch. “Get back here.”

“You order me too much.”

She raised an eyebrow at him and glanced at the couch. Jaime sighed and crashed back down there.

“I do need to talk to you, Jaime. I think we have to revisit my duties.”

“Which certainly doesn’t include all that you’ve said in the last five minutes.”

To his surprise, she flushed and looked embarrassed. “Sorry. But there are things that need to be done that. . .well, I don’t believe should be handled by me. Jaime, I’m your agent. I’m the go-between with art dealers, curators, anyone who wants to buy your work. I arrange interviews with the press. I keep your name in and out of the media when needed. I do not,” she cleared her throat, “buy groceries, arrange the schedules of cleaners, buy your paint supplies and get yelled at for getting you the wrong shade of blue. Occasionally I’ll bring you takeout. But when you want someone to cook for you and clean up after you, it’s not something to expect from someone who has degrees in Art History and Finance. You get my drift?”

“You mean I need an assistant.”

“One who should be compensated very well given your temperament. Firstly.”

Jaime looked puzzled. “Firstly?”

Margaery was giddy as she stood up. “I have a list  in my purse.”

 

 

 

Brienne skidded in front of the stairs of the Bolton apartment. Without missing a beat, she lurched up the first step, the second, all the way to the tenth. She was just about to ring the doorbell when the door opened.

Roose Bolton, Ramsay’s father, stared at her as if she was a fly in his soup. He was much shorter but Brienne felt insignificant. She was still found him as creepy as when he first interviewed her. His eyes were of a gray so pale they were nearly as white as the sclera. His voice was soft, just above a hush. He had the well-enunciated, suave syllables of the rich that should be heaven to listen to. There was a haughtiness about him, and something calculating and cunning.

Though King City was melting from the heat, Roose was dressed in a black suit, a black shirt and a black tie. His skin was pale, almost chalky. She didn’t think he was old but there were deep lines on his face and from what little she could see of his neck, the veins were thick and bluish.

As Brienne struggled from panting, he looked at his watch. “A minute more and you’ll be late, Miss Tarth.”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “But the train broke down—“

“I don’t pay you to make excuses for your irresponsibility.” He swept the door open. “Ramsay waits for you.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry again.” She ducked into the apartment and hurried to the drawing room. It was freezing inside the apartment.

Ramsay Bolton was ten years old and was the smaller, creepier version of his father. If not for his pale eyes and sullen expression, he could be considered a beautiful child. Brienne greeted him, ignoring the resentful look he gave her before flopping down on a chair. As Brienne pulled out her cello from the case, he said, “You’re ugly.”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before,” Brienne remarked, sounding bored.

Ramsay was a nightmare student. He couldn’t sit still, he hated playing the cello and he certainly didn’t like Brienne. He called her ugly, among other things.

Brienne may not look like she was dissuading or teaching Ramsay to be respectful. Over the years, she had become adept at identifying and dealing with bullies. Bullies went after you because they worried people would go after them first, so they had to look strong and brave. They threw insults, stole your lunch money to scare you. Bullies only responded to strength. Brienne’s way was to act bored, passively calling them out and doing so, turning the much-deserved ridicule on them.

She tightened the endpin of her cello and turned around to face Ramsay. He was sitting down, arm crossed on his chest and glaring at her. His cello lay at his feet.

She glanced at it then at him. “What’s this?”

“I don’t want to play.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“I don’t want to play today.” He smirked.

“You said that last week. Anything else?”

“You smell.”

Brienne blushed. Her last job at Sword Drive was a bigger clean-up job than expected. A tenant had skipped out on the rent and there were boxes of rotten take-out _everywhere._ There was no time for a shower, only a change of clothes. She made it inside the train right before the doors closed but it broke down shortly. It was fifteen minutes before operations resumed. 

But she was quick. Tilting her head innocently, she said, “You’re sure that’s not you?”

“Of course it’s not me!”

“Really? Because I took a shower this morning.”

“You’re sweating.”

“And you’re not. I know I’m alive. Are you? I hear the dead stink.” Brienne wrinkled her nose exaggeratedly.

“I’m not dead!” Ramsay shouted.

Damn. And because she couldn’t catch a break, the door opened. Brienne knew who was standing behind her before hearing him.

“Miss Tarth,” Roose said. “A word?”

Ramsay chuckled but Roose must have glared at him because he suddenly stopped. Brienne took her cello with her, fearful that the boy might stomp on it.

Brienne didn’t know her way around the Bolton place. It was dark and cold, with doors locked and window drapes pulled close. Because her blouse was damp with sweat, she was soon shivering. She had to keep her eyes on the man walking swiftly before her, not wanting to stumble or trip and have it as another point against her in a sermon she was sure to receive in a little while.

Roose Bolton’s office was as cold as the Winterlands. It probably wasn’t a good idea to take her cello along but she knew Roose wouldn’t appreciate being kept waiting. She stood in the middle of his office as Roose walked around his desk.

His office was dark, with deep crimson accents and furniture that were either black or dark, gun-metal gray. One was wall was decorated with stuffed animal heads. People displayed antlers but actual animal heads were something else. She could never appreciate it.

Next to the gruesome display was a glass cabinet of antique guns. Brienne hoped it was locked. She didn’t know if the guns were loaded but even if they weren’t, weapons shouldn’t be in a home with a child.

Roose sat down and looked at her. The room was very dark yet she had no trouble seeing his pale face. With his clothes blending in the unlit surroundings, he looked like a floating head.

For a wild moment, Brienne was convinced he was contemplating adding her head to his collection with the way he was looking at her.

Then his pale eyes slid down to her face and rested boldly on her chest. Brienne froze, but not from the cold.

Her blouse was white and damp under the arms, around the back. She didn’t wear bras. Because of the icy temperature in the apartment, she wore sweaters and tanks under them when coming here. Due to the heat and her rush to beat the clock, she had only worn a blouse. She had been so busy getting ready for class with Ramsay that she didn’t notice the tightening of her nipples until now.

If she put the cello in front of her, then Roose would know that she knew what he saw. If she did nothing, he would still see. Brienne refused to yield when it came to people intimidating her and this was exactly what he was doing now. Waiting for the first sign of discomfort from her so he would attack. So she kept expression cool and the cello at her side, hoping that the chill in the air staved off her horrified blush.

Roose smirked. He looked like someone savoring an anticipated kill. She gulped.

“Miss Tarth,” he said, looking at her face. “Do you know why I hired you to teach my son?”

“You want him to master the cello.”

“That’s secondary. The boy would never be a master cellist. I ask again. Do you know why I hired you?”

Brienne cleared her throat. “No, sir.”

That satisfied him. He looked pleased. Too pleased.

She had just revealed herself. A vulnerability. Roose’s pale eyes shone. Even when happy he was creepy.

“I hired you because you are Selwyn Tarth’s daughter. I have no doubt that you know how to play the instrument. But you father, the Seven bless him, is the reason why you stand where you are. I wish for my son to learn from the best but the best don’t come with background such as yours. I don’t just let anyone in my home, Miss Tarth. People are allowed in because they reflect the best of me and my family. Engaging in games with my son is not what I expect from a lady like you. It certainly not the reason I pay you.”

Brienne couldn’t stop from flushing. She nodded. “I understand.”

“While you are here, I also advise about dressing properly for the job. Your surprising charms are much appreciated,” Roose continued. “Although a boy of Ramsay’s age still knows nothing of them.”

Brienne went from being embarrassed to physically ill. Her mouth opened in shock at what she was hearing. Roose was not done.

“Tell me, Miss Tarth, you mentioned in the interview that you also work other jobs. Are you compensated adequately Mayhaps I can persuade you to other means of employment with more satisfactory benefits.” He smiled. “For both of us.”

If she was within six feet of this creep any longer she was going to hurl. Roose Bolton deserved to have her throw up her tuna sandwich all over his blood-red shag carpet but she needed the job with Ramsay.

“Um, I’m afraid my talent is only with the cello, s-sir,” she managed to stammer. “Challenging as he is, I-I like teaching him. I-I also have, uh, c-commitments with my other jobs. I-I can’t just leave. And I don’t want to.”

“Are you sure?”

“P-Positive. Sir.”

Roose smiled. “We shall see.”


	4. Wrong Blondes and A Lady in Pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime dismisses all the models brought before him.

If Jaime were a green boy of fourteen, the week-long parade of blond beauties in and out of his loft would be a dream come true. Bronn thought so. Tyrion too. Margaery, who made the arrangements with Westeros University’s Fine Arts department, got wind that her husband was hanging out way too often at his brother’s because of this. She stormed into the loft and shooed the men out.

There was no assistant who came close to the requirements Margaery had outlined. It was a permanent position, which meant an eternity of dealing with Jaime. He was handsome, he could be really charming when he made an effort. Jaime the brother was great, so was Jaime the uncle, Jaime the best friend. Jaime the Artist was someone else. He could either drive you to murder him or kill yourself. So, as much as she disliked it, Margaery was still stuck as his agent-cum-assistant.

Jaime’s expression was bored as a tall blond disrobed in front of him. Margaery, reading a book, snuck a peek. _Wow._ Full, firm breasts, a narrow curving waist, round hips, slim legs. It was a body for a sexy magazine and for canvas. Hells, it was the kind of body giving her second thoughts about being straight.

But Jaime crossed his arms and shook his head. “I’m sorry. But you’re not what I’m looking for.”

“Oh.” The woman looked surprised and confused. Her face cleared and she shrugged. “Well, no problem.”

As she picked up the robe to put it back on, Jaime went to her and held out several bills. “Here’s cab money. I’m really sorry.”

Despite the rejection, the woman was pleased with his offer. “If only the other artists are as classy as you are. Thanks.” She took the money and went to the bathroom to change.

Margaery, who was back to reading her book, took a bite of her apple. “She’s sexy.”

“I’m not looking for sexy.” Jaime stared at the spot on the floor where the woman had stood. He remembered blond hair. She had been naked. Beyond that, his mind couldn’t conjure up how blond she was, if her breasts were full or just right. If not for the lingering scent of too-floral drugstore perfume, he wouldn’t think anyone had been there.

“Not that kind, anyway. I don’t know. It’s not what I want.” He shrugged.

Thirty minutes later, the next blond arrived at the loft. She stripped in the bathroom and pulled on the robe. Jaime, wearily getting his supplies ready while kneeling on the floor, looked up as she shrugged off the slinky garment. One look was all it took for Jaime to know she was wrong.

“What was wrong with her this time?” Margaery asked, chewing. “She’s the most perfect in the bunch.”

Though he had not looked at the woman as a woman he personally desired, his cheeks flushed upon speaking.“I like bush on a woman.”

“What do you know.” Soft mockery laced Margaery’s voice. “Jaime Lannister is a feminist. You should talk to Tyrion about hair down there. Your brother’s a bit of a fanatic about it. If I didn’t love him—“

Catching what she meant, he made a face, groaning. “Bloody Seven. A barrel of wine will not make me forget that image.”

Margaery crossed her legs, grinning and polished off her apple with a snapping crunch. “But the aesthetic has its benefits. Better sensitivity because the pussy is so naked—“

 _“No!”_ Jaime yelled in horror, covering his hears.

She laughed. “Prude.”

After the third, wrong woman showed up, Jaime started packing up his stuff. “I need air. That woman’s perfume choked me.” His nose was wrinkled as he waved a  hand around. “Patchouli is the worst, Seven Hells.”

“Jaime, I’m glad that you have this drive again but maybe if you can tone down the obsession on this woman you supposedly saw in the park—“

Jaime shot her a look. “I did see her.”

Margaery was sympathetic and he hated that. “Alright. You saw this woman. You want to draw her. But apart from blond, not too attractive, and tall, there isn’t really much I can go on. Dayne Art College has only so many tall blondes in their roster. You’ve rejected all of them. Can’t you just,” she said, motioning with her hands at his supplies, “I mean, can’t they just stand in for that woman and then you just fill in what you remember about her? If it’s possible?”

Margaery did have a point. Jaime could, if he tried.

His cast had been removed but his right wrist was still wrapped to prevent him from overdoing it. His fingers had been stiff from inactivity for so long but a paintbrush and charcoal got them mobile quickly. There was still some discomfort in his wrist but it wasn’t unbearable.

What was unbearable was since the accident, he had been dreaming of the woman—the little that he could remember of her. Always it was back at the park. He did not know which part of her was from his imagination, his secret longings, and which was real. He knew in his heart that she was not beautiful, that it was the way she moved and how she was the embodiment of contrasts that pulled him. The hair was blond. That he knew. Golden, pale, white, he couldn’t really tell. The neck, he had never been able to forget. A surprisingly delicate curve— _like a swan’s_ —and possibly broad shoulders. Awkward stomping movements, as if she was mad at the earth. In his dreams, he would get up from the bench. No cyclists mowed him down. People parted as if to let him pass. The sun fell bright on the path between him and the woman, as if guiding him. He would get close, really close—his right hand would touch her shoulder, getting her attention. As her head swiveled to look at him, he woke up. Always he woke up. Not even sleeping pills could keep him dreaming long enough to tap into a secret unconscious in his mind that held all of this woman.

He could do as Margaery suggested. A challenge but not as challenging, really. Still, it felt. . .wrong. A disservice to himself, and to her, the blond in the park. Everything in him resisted the idea of settling, of a stand-in for her and his memory merely filling in the blanks, where it could. He wanted to see her, look his fill. _Needed_ to capture her on canvas as he regarded her.

The woman had ignited that part of him he thought dead and lost. A glimpse of her was enough spark to bring him back to life—more alive than he had felt at any point in his life. Parts of him he hadn’t known about were suddenly felt, and they were real. So very, very real.

“No,” he answered so quietly it seemed he talking more to himself than to her. Margaery tilted her head to hear him better. “No, I can’t—I refuse.” He stuffed charcoal in his shirt pocket and tucked his sketchbook under his arm. “I feel that—no, I know it’s wrong to settle like that.”

Margaery stared at him for several moments of silence before she nodded slowly. “I think I can understand.”

Jaime let out a soft huff and put his keys and wallet in his pocket. “So. You’ll get lost at some point, yes?” But he was grinning so she would know he wasn’t being mean. He did hope to find this house empty when he returned. Margaery had been nothing but helpful and patient. Still, Jaime longed to come home where either she or Tyrion weren’t waiting for him, or when they didn’t hover. He was beginning to feel like an overgrown child whose parents regarded as glass, a child that they strap a pillow around for protection from sharp objects and corners.

“I promise. Oh, by the way, just to remind you. The cleaners are coming tomorrow. I got it right, didn’t I? You said you wanted them coming twice a week now.”

At first, he hadn’t been sold on the idea of complete strangers entering his home to fix and clean. He had nothing to hide but having strange hands poking around and judging him for the toothpaste gathered at the bottom of the sink or the lube at his bedside table felt like a violation. Margaery assured him that the staff of Mop Busters was trustworthy. The employees went through rigorous screening. They had to be recommended by fellow employees, previous employers also had to give a reference. Mop Busters also didn’t hire anyone with a criminal record, given that going to houses and knowing every inch of a client’s life through dirt and grime was sensitive. Magaery shared that it was her grandmother Olenna who told her about it. Jaime had met her several times. He didn’t like the woman—she was too blunt and sarcastic—but found her amusing and respected her. If Mop Busters had her seal of approval, then he trusted it.

Mop Busters had done a thorough job. His loft was spotless and shiny for the first time since buying it. The cleaners steered clear of the studio, leaving alone the mess of paint splatters and splotches on the floor, the supplies scattered around, papers crumpled. Entering his house felt like being in a living art installation—the rest of the area pristine with everything neatly in place and gleaming, then there was an area that seemed to laugh in the face of order with its explosion of color, textures. He loved it. Not to mention that things were so easier now that they were in place. Who knew how much time was being saved knowing which shelf to get a clean towel from, for example?

“Yeah. So they’ll be here again tomorrow, same time?”

“As requested.”

Jaime took a cab to Bronn’s shop, having made arrangements the day before to meet him there. They didn’t talk much once they found a bench at the park. Bronn was content to watch people or relax and drink the sights in. Jaime would sketch. Ver few words passed between them.

Bronn co-owned Blackwater Furniture with his wife, Lollys. She did set design for the theater. In between rehearsals, she helped out in the shop. Jaime expected to find her there, remembering something that Bronn mentioned a while back. But it was a bored assistant that met Jaime. When asked where his bosses were, the guy, whose nameplate read Ari, just pointed behind him.

“They’re back there.” He said, rolling his eyes.

Jaime didn’t appreciate the attitude. One look from him and the boy flushed. Speaking more politely, he said, “They’ve been in the office for a while.”

Jaime went to behind the shelves and knocked on the door. He heard something crash in the room and called out, “Is everything alright?”

A few seconds later, the door opened. A pink-faced Lollys wih her pale blond ponytail loose and messy on her head and her shirt buttoned crookedly greeted him. Jaime couldn’t help but grin at the state she was in. Lollys was not the prettiest girl but she was tough. She not only had Bronn wrapped around her finger, she was also one of the few people who wasn’t intimidated by Jaime. Right now, though, she looked embarrassed and a little annoyed at his smirk.

“You should try getting laid sometime, Jaime,” she said, righting the buttons of her shirt. Like her husband before her, she looked pointedly at his crotch. “Body parts fall off when they’re not used.”

“Language I never expected from a lady yet a delight, surprisingly,” Jaime rejoined. Leaning against the doorframe, he asked, “Is my friend alive or did you kill him?”

“Seven Hells, Lannister, you said you’ll be here at three!” Bronn growled. Lollys pushed the door fully open, revealing Bronn hastily tucking his shirt in his jeans. Jaime made a show of exaggeratedly looking at his watch.

“So I’m ten minutes early, what’s the big deal?”

Bronn shot him a murderous look while Lollys giggled. As Jaime affected a sheepish look and a helpless shrug, someone barked from below his legs. He looked down and saw the fat, black Rottweiler that Bronn and Lollys had inappropriately named Honey. The dog hardly looked like a honey. Jaime wasn’t a big fan of dogs, or animals in general, and Honey looked like the kind of beast you sic on someone you wanted dead. Nothing could be further from the truth, according to the couple. Honey was afraid of thunder, hated going up the stairs. The dog also freaked out once Bronn got the power tools working. Honey was also probably the one dog who thought it was beneath her to play with a Frisbee or fetch anything.

“Take her with you,” Lollys said, passing the leash to Jaime. “She loves the park.”

Jaime took it while Bronn groaned. “Lollys, Honey doesn’t like being around kids. Parks are kid central.”

“Well, she has to get used to kids.” Lollys said firmly. She patted Honey on the head. “The kids will love you, Honey. Just be nice and no biting.”

Bronn took the leash from Jaime and they left the shop. Walking down the street, Jaime remarked, “So we’re dog-sitting today, aren’t we?”

“Lollys says Honey has to be around children more,” Bronn answered with a shrug as he half-walked, half-dragged the dog.

“Why the sudden push?”

Bronn grinned. “She’s pregnant.”

“Honey?”

“Idiot. Lollys!”

Jaime had been walking a few steps ahead of his friend. As the words sank in, then their meaning, his steps faltered. His head whipped around and the smile on his face was not the sardonic, mocking one he wore too often. His green eyes warmed and he held out his arms. “Holy fuck, Bronn, get over here.” The two men embraced and Jaime patted him hard on the back. “Congratulations, you son of a bitch. Pregnant! I didn’t know you were planning children.”

Bronn nodded and Jaime had to hide a laugh at the moisture leaking from the corners of his gray eyes. Sniffing, Bronn nodded and said, “We’ve been trying for a year.”

“How far along is she?”

“Nine weeks. It’s great, right? Can you believe it? I’m going to be a father.” Bronn and Honey continued walking, leaving Jaime a little behind. “Me. Motherfucker Bronn is going to be a daddy.”

“Yeah,” Jaime said, his voice hollow to his ears. A dark memory crept up but he shook his head, wishing to banish it once and for all. There were days when he fooled himself into thinking it never happened. Drinking made it seem like a bad dream. “You’re going to be a father.”

“I’d love a girl. But the thing is, everywhere in the world, people hurt little girls. I don’t know if I can take that pressure, Jaime, knowing that because she’s a girl, she’s likely to be in more danger than a boy.”

“Boys are hurt everywhere in the world too.”

“Girls get it worse.”

Jaime didn’t know what to say. He wanted to disagree.

“Small girls, big girls, old women,” Bronn shook his head. “But you know, much as I would prefer a son, I can’t let go of the idea of a daughter. If the gods are kind, she’ll take after her mother. In every way. I’m just a foul-mouthed cunt who hacks out furniture.”

“What’s this, self-pity?” Jaime  snorted.

“Who the fuck knows.” They crossed the street. Stepping on the sidewalk, Bronn asked, “Have you thought about it?”

“What? Becoming a father?”

“Yeah. You’re not getting any older. You can’t be cool Uncle Jaime forever.”

They walked quietly for a while, content to just let Honey lead them. Just when Bronn thought Jaime was never going to answer, his friend spoke up.

“Fatherhood is quite a complication, wouldn’t you say?”

Bronn shrugged. “How do I know? Despite my misgivings about probably having a daughter, I hope I raise her to be strong enough to show the sons of bitches she’ll encounter to think twice about messing with her.” He gave Jaime a curious look. “So, never?”

Jaime had not thought about becoming a father for a very long time. “There’s a lot I have to work on,” was all he said.

It sounded reason enough but now that it was declared, he expected Bronn to say bullshit. It sure sounded like it to Jaime’s ears. But Bronn just looked at him again before Honey suddenly barked and began to trot.

“Don’t we all,” he said before lurching after the dog.

 

 

Brienne turned the lowest setting of the blow dryer, fluffing and brushing the puppy’s fur as she went about with the final touches of grooming. The puppy stood still, just watching with its small dark eyes as she worked on him. Done, she gave him a final pat of the towel. She took the pink, paw-shaped beeper to page the owner that the puppy was done. Then she put him in the carrier he came in with. She turned her attention to a poodle in the next carrier, murmuring sweet, comforting nothings as she unlocked the door and pulled it out.

When people found out that she groomed dogs, they would respond with “Oohs” and “Aahs,” sighing with envy that it was nice to be paid to be doing something so fun, and on the cutest  animals. Dogs were probably cute and she had to admit there were a few sweethearts among her regulars. But bathing dogs was not fun. At all.

They squealed and squirmed, struggled, yelped, kicked, bit, went so hysterical that the station for grooming was left in such a disarray it seemed to be the site of a violent crime. Ruff N’ Roll required that all dogs and cats they will be grooming had to have to necessary shots and with updated records. But these precautions did not guarantee a pet’s calm temperament. Since working for Ruff N’ Roll nearly a year ago, Brienne had to have rabies and tetanus shots. The only upside was the owner of the dog paid for them. But still.

Brienne was paired with Podrick Payne. He did the driving because her license had expired. He also did grooming. Podrick liked dogs so for him, this was a fun job. Brienne was only in it because she got to pick her schedule and the tips were great. But it was also hazardous because she worked heavily with her hands and if something were to happen to them, she wouldn’t be able to play the cello. Even when the job paid well, she was on the lookout for something less dangerous, preferably something that didn’t involve teeth.

Her employment contract with Ramsay Bolton thankfully came to an end a couple of weeks ago. It freaked her out how Roose came on to her and if not for the generous pay she wouldn’t have shown up to finish her contract. Sansa had been just as horrified when Brienne told her and urged her friend to leave the job. But Roose Bolton was a potential gold mine of future contacts. More than the money, Brienne couldn’t risk sullying her name and compromising her chances of getting hired to teach the cello again due to Roose’s bad reference. Sansa offered to drive and pick her up fromw work. Roose was not around during her last week but knowing her friend was waiting outside kept Brienne’s anxiety in check.

She was hosing the poodle when the puppy’s owner suddenly arrived. Pod was grooming another dog so he kept a close watch of the poodle while Brienne processed the payment and released the other dog. She pocketed the ten-dragon tip and resumed working on the poodle.

“I’m thinking of getting a dog from the pound,” Pod told Brienne.

“Really? You didn’t mention before that you wanted to have one for a pet.” Brienne said as poured animal-friendly wash on to her palm before rubbing it through the poodle’s curls. The poodle, used to being groomed, stood still while she worked. “What are you thinking of getting?”

“No particular breed, really. But I’d like a friendly little guy,” Pod answered. “Maybe a pug. Something that can’t be too big but if that’s the kind of dog that ends up liking me, why not?”

“I think it’s sweet.” She remarked, smiling. Pod blushed and bowed his head.

“Er, what about you? Do you have a dog? Or  a pet?”

“Nah.” Brienne started rinsing, guiding the hose carefully around the animal so the spray won’t startle and spook him. “I live in a studio. I can barely fit in it.”

Pod finished with his dog and got in touch with the owner through the paw-shaped beeper again. Brienne’s dog was their last appointment for the day. While his partner was busy, he set about cleaning around the trailer.

Brienne patted the poodle dry with a fresh towel then started blow-drying its fur. As she was doing this, she overheard Pod’s soft, stammering voice replying to a man’s gruff tone. The roar of the blow-dryer made their conversation indiscernible. Try as did to crane her neck to look, she could only see half of Pod’s form by the door. He must be leaning halfway out towards whoever he was talking to.

Pod was a nice guy and earnest. Thus, he always got pushed around. Brienne was one of the few people he really talked to. Concerned that someone was probably giving him a hard time, Brienne put a leash around the dog and went to him. Her heavy footsteps drew Pod’s attention and he turned to give her a look of relief.

“What’s going on?” She asked.

“You his boss, lady?” The man had slick, dark hair spilling from his wide forehead. He was dressed in a faded white t-shirt and older-looking jeans. His arms were heavily veined, straining as he struggled to keep hold of an overactive black Lab. Despite his ongoing struggle, his gray eyes widened at the sight of her.

An apron protected Brienne’s uniform from getting wet and stained. But the rest of her was still not much to look at, and when someone looked at her, it was always followed with a double-take. Seven Hells, she knew she was ugly but how ugly was she really to always get such a reaction? Perhaps her uniform exacerbated this. It was pink, which was not her color at all. Worse, the top was printed with rows of sprinting puppies. The uniform would probably look cute on somebody like Sansa, even with her auburn hair. But not for women like her.

“My name is Brienne,” she said, her voice a little sharp. “What do you want?”

Pod opened his mouth to speak but the man was faster.

“Your guy here tells me you can’t take any walk-ins anymore because you’re done for the day. I say I’ll pay extra if you can just give this monster here a bath.” At the word monster, the Lab barked, as if in protest. The man rolled his eyes. “Her name’s Honey. Look, she’s a sweet dog, and I know I have no appointment but I really need this one hour.” Noting Brienne’s scowl, he added, “Name your price. I’ll pay it. Or my friend will.” He glanced at someone from the side.

Brienne turned her head and did a double-take. She was sure even Pod gasped, and she knew he was straight despite being pretty timid.

Walking toward them as if he owned not just the pavement but the very earth it was on was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. He was handsome but also beautiful. So, so fucking beautiful. His blond hair was thick and wavy, just brushing his broad shoulders. His facial features were sharply defined, as if carved by the most masterful of hands. Eyebrows in a soft arch over his brilliant eyes the color of emeralds, a long, slender nose. Cheekbones. Holy hells those cheekbones could cut you. And that jaw. A strong, perfect square. Every inch of him radiated with beauty. His gray t-shit was loose and threadbare but the sleeves clung to his muscular arms, with thick, strong bluish veins. His hands were wide, with long, elegant fingers. Even these were beautiful.

He held ice cream cones, licking one as he approached them while he lowered his hand to offer the other to the dog. Brienne snapped herself out of the reverie and refocused her attention to the other man. As she did, she could feel the beautiful man staring at her. A vivid red blush began to spread from her cheeks before coloring her entire face, spreading to her neck. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him slow down in licking the ice cream. At that moment, she knew what he thought. Everyone always thought it: _She’s so ugly._

She opened her mouth to respond to the man’s offer about paying extra. Like his friend, the beautiful man was fast. But his words were not the ones she had been expecting.

“Where have I seen you before?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking so long to update! Grad school is whipping my ass so I had to get that out of the way first. I'll post another chapter tomorrow. 
> 
> Can we all say a collective yay on how this chapter ended? I mean, finally, right?
> 
> Thank you! 
> 
> All errors are mine. My works are unbeta'd.


	5. Brienne, The First to Say No

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime surprises Brienne. She returns the favor.

The beautiful man was staring at her with unabashed curiosity. But Brienne had learned too well the games men like to play on her. There was no stopping the flare of heat rising in her cheeks and she mumbled, “We’ve never met,” before quickly turning her attention to his friend. “We can take in your dog but since there’s no reservation, it costs extra.”

“I have a very good memory with faces,” the beautiful man continued to drawl. His brows had drawn together at her dismissal. “I know I’ve seen you somewhere.”

His friend rolled his eyes. “This is Jaime. This woman is Brenna.”

“Brienne.” 

“Brienne. Fine. That jog your memory, Jaime? No? Then I’m Bronn, and this mutt here is Honey. She hasn’t had a bath in a while and I’d like to surprise my wife.” The dog barked upon hearing her name. Bronn sighed and patted her on the head. “My wife loves her more than me.”

“We’ve never met but I’ve seen you somewhere,” the blond man insisted as Bronn handed Honey over to Pod. He looked at her from the top of her limp hair all the way to her sneakers. “How tall are you?”

“We’re really busy. As you can see, our job isn’t over yet,” Brienne answered, reaching for the door to close it. But he stopped her by slamming his palm on it. Pod jumped. Bronn cocked an eyebrow.

“What the fuck are you doing, Jaime?”

“I have seen you before. The hair.”His hand swiped at a lock before Brienne could jump out of the way. “Those shoulders. Seven Hells,” he shook his head in disbelief. “It’s you.”

Brienne was frowning and shifting her weight from one foot to the next, wondering what game she was entangled in this time. Pod, seeing how uncomfortable the man was making her, stammered, “Uh, sir, she doesn’t know you and you’re scaring her.”

“He’s not!” Brienne protested at the same time that Jaime said in an outraged voice, “Of course not! Am I scaring you? Wench?”

‘What did you call me?”

“Falcon Park,” Jaime pressed. “Do you live near it?”

“So what if you’ve seen me there?” Brienne started backing away and tried to close the door again. 

“I dreamed of you.”

She froze then glared at him. “What?”

Jaime looked stunned at his admission too. Brienne took advantage by slamming the door to his face. She leaned against the door, breathing deeply. Pod noticed this.

“Are you okay?”

“How weird was that?” She demanded, shaking her head. “Gods, I hate men. Except you, Pod.”

Pod blushed and pointed at Honey. “So do I get her or do you want her?”

“She’s yours. I’m nearly done with the poodle. I’ll wait until you finish with her.”

“Really? But Brienne, you’re the one they talked to—“

“Yeah. But I’m tired. Besides, I already have more than enough tips for today.” She patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. Pod was a working student too, and also on scholarship. He relied on summer jobs to fund his allowance for the rest of the year. She was about to say more when someone knocked on the door. 

Brienne pulled it open and scowled upon seeing who was there.

“Okay, what I said sounded fucking weird now that I’ve played it back in my head,” Jaime said. “If a total stranger came up to me saying the things I just did, I’d punch him in the face. I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable. That’s not my intention.”

“Brienne, will you be alright?” Pod asked. He was clearly worried. 

“Yes.” Brienne assured him. “Fine. Uh, could you check on my charge? And finish the rest? I’m just drying her.”

“Sure. And thanks, Brienne.” Pod smiled at her. It dropped upon seeing Jaime. Jaime smirked and leaned against the door with the negligent arrogance of a man who always got what he wanted. Brienne stepped back, repulsed. She didn’t care if he was the handsomest man alive. He was playing some elaborate mind game with her, waiting until she tripped up before he delivered the killing blow. Never did she think that there could be an encounter with the opposite sex worse than Roose Bolton. 

Jaime glanced after Pod before turning to her. “Your boyfriend?”

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re doing here but I’m at work. You’re taking me away from time that I should be putting in to earn money. Whatever it is you’ve got to say to me, just get it over with. It can’t be nastier than what I’ve heard before. I’ve heard everything that could be construed as worse.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Brienne was wary. “Just say it.”

He surprised her again.

“I’d like to paint you.”

 

Usually, when women were told somebody wanted to paint them, they responded with surprised, shy smiles. Yes would follow shortly. Nobody ever refused and when a man such as Jaime Lannister made the offer, there was no other answer but Yes, followed by When. 

Brienne the dog groomer had called him a fucking idiot then slammed the door. When he knocked again, she growled from behind the door that she would call the cops on him if he persisted. So Jaime left like a disappointed dog, tail between his legs. 

Hands down the woman was the ugliest he had ever seen. Her hair was a messy crop of rough, pale blond strands. Her skin was so pale that the likes of her weren’t meant for the sun. She had freckles everywhere. Fucking everywhere. Her lips were plump.

Jaime was certain she was the woman he saw. The blond was correct. He may have not seen her facial features up close but he knew she wasn’t very attractive. It just never entered his mind someone could be so ugly.

Except for her eyes. 

Never had he seen anything so blue and so clear. Her eyes were the color of sapphires, and her stare was guileless and without fear, even with her shoulders hunched. Jaime had been stunned when he realized the woman growling at Bronn was the same woman from the park. It was her. The lumbering, awkward movements. The hunched posture. Seeing her in the flesh, having her confirmed as real, had almost knocked him off his feet.

Brienne was not beautiful. Art dealt with beauty, yes, but also with that quality called character. Her eyes had it. They were clear, alert, brilliant, expressive. Jaime had to keep himself in check from staring too much as he witnessed her eyes blitz through a series of emotions. It had been a fascinating experience and he wanted to see more.

She wasn’t interested. If he had been standing any closer to the door, it would have hit him on the nose. 

Jaime found Bronn at the park, sitting on the bench with his arms stacked on it. He had two cups of fresh coffee beside him. He sat down and glanced at the blue coffee cup. “It’s yours,” Bronn said.

“Thanks.” He took a sip.

Seeing his friend’s troubled expression, Bronn mused, “The lady said no, eh?”

“I don’t understand it,” Jaime said in disbelief.

“History has been made and the world just goes on. Jaime Lannister rejected by a woman. Who would’ve thought!”

“Shut up.”

“Come on, you didn’t expect her to leap at the chance, did you? But the way she was looking at you. I know women. More than you do. She was looking at you licking at that ice cream wishing it was her instead. And the way you were looking at her. But the lass clearly has a brain. At least, she’s not blinded by a pretty face.” Bronn chuckled and sat back. “I like her.”

“I was interested in her as a subject.”

“Sure you are. You also want to fuck her. I know the look too well. You don’t.”

Jaime made a face. “Fuck her? You’ve seen what she looks like.” The scrubs-style pink uniform she wore was an abomination. It made her skin and freckles look waxy and washed out. Her forehead was gleaming with sweat. His nose wrinkled in memory. She also smelled of dog and something like piss. Fuck her indeed. If not for her unusual eyes he would think her a man. 

“Fucking a pretty girl is nice. It always is. But an ugly broad. They’re more uninhibited, you know, because they think this is the last time they get to fuck a pretty man like you. So they enjoy it while it lasts. And they’re so grateful afterwards. You’ll live like a king if you fuck and marry an ugly girl. She won’t betray you, that’s for sure.”

“What is it with everyone wanting me to fuck the nearest available skirt? Sex is the last thing in my mind.”

“And that’s why your work is shit. Shit and festering with flies.”

“Thanks a lot. I hope your cock falls off." 

“Look, I say this with the best intentions, Jaime. But you need to relax. You’ve hated yourself for so long, been so careful, that you’ve become afraid to cross those boundaries you’ve set on your own. It’s hindering you. It’s tension you won’t know you have until you come in a cunt. You need to get it out of your system.”

Jaime finished his coffee and tossed it to garbage can. “You talk to your wife this way?”

“My wife likes it when I talk this way.”

“I’m not going to fuck her.”

“Lollys? Not if you want me to castrate you.”

“Dumb shit. Brienne. I just want to paint her. You’ve seen her eyes.”

Bronn’s tone shifted to a softer, more thoughtful register. “Yeah. Beautiful. Women have pretty eyes but that one’s beautiful. I can say objectively, and because Lollys isn’t around, that Brienne has beautiful eyes.”

“She sure does.” Jaime stared off in the horizon. He thought it a pity that the sky was a faint blue instead of a richer shade. Contrast it with the fluffy white clouds and it would be a fantastic photo of the atmosphere. 

“So how are you going to make her say yes?”

Jaime smirked. “I might not have to work that hard to get her to say yes. Just a feeling.” He pulled out a piece of charcoal from his shirt pocket and flipped open his sketchbook. “She’ll say yes. I know it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm half-asleep so please bear with me for the errors. Next chapter will be up in a few hours. 
> 
> Brienne doesn't know yet her connection to Jaime and Jaime to her. Bronn only introduced him as Jaime, not Jaime Lannister.


	6. We Throw Ourselves Upon A Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne gets an unexpected call. Jaime can only watch his father ruin the family empire.

“I get it. I really do. I know what I look like. I’m reminded of that every hour of the day. But I’m a decent person! What did I ever do to be always stared at like I’m a freak, to be treated as something less than human?” Brienne was careful in putting the pot of rich, earthy beef stew on the counter but the deep scowl on her face, along with the darkness of her eyes, showed she was barely keeping control. The red flush on her cheeks was not mainly due to the heat from the oven.

Olenna Tyrell had sent an assistant shopping that day for ingredients for Highgarden beef stew. Using only the most succulent cuts of beef, they were cubed and cooked for hours to soften them, to the point that they melted in the mouth. The stew was a rich concoction of chicken stock, red wine, spices, with vegetables and organic rose petals in the mix. It was a hearty, very filling meal, but due to the preparation and the time it required, Olenna, at her age and with her difficulty, couldn’t cook it. She had taught Brienne the dish before, so she invited the young woman over for dinner. Sansa, who was staying with Brienne and sleeping on a pull-out, had also been invited. She took care of dessert: lemon meringue pie.

“You were right to refuse him. Honestly, I don’t know what kind of manual these men pass around to think that those lines actually work,” Sansa agreed as they set the table. “No one has the right to make you feel bad, Brienne. You’ve never done anything to deserve such ill treatment. If I’d been there I would have slapped him.”

Olenna had to keep her thoughts to herself as she listened to them talk. Well, she was old, so it was a long time since things were done in the proper way. In her day, having someone tell you that he dreamed of you and wanted to paint you were compliments. Yes, it did come off as quite strong from someone you just met but had Olenna been in Brienne’s shoes, she would be flattered. Seeing the cynicism and suspicion in Brienne and Sansa’s conversations, Olenna was grateful that she was too old to worry about such things now. Things were very different. It was a tougher, more complicated world. And more cruel. This broke her heart.

Brienne Tarth was ugly, truly. The abuse she had put up with her whole life had Olenna wondering just how much darker the world had become. To be judged by looks alone was always painful but Brienne seemed to attract abuse despite being a lovely person. The girl was strong enough to take care of herself yet Olenna longed to protect her. It was sad that as a result Brienne was suspicious but this was the result of how people had been towards her. She had to build a fortress around herself.

But Olenna still spoke a truth: “Men have always been complicated. A lot more complicated that they let on. If they only knew how it is to be in ours shoes, they won’t last a day.”

Sansa uncorked a wine and poured her a glass. “What I don’t get is this attitude that continues to prevail. Like we women should be grateful when some guy pays us attention, no matter how horrible.”

Sansa Stark was a great beauty. Her hair was a rich, thick auburn, with soft waves. Her eyes were bright blue and her skin a smooth, flawless porcelain. Despite this, Olenna knew she hardly dated. Her good looks made her an easy target for jerks. They were also the reason guys avoided her, thinking that someone who looked like a goddess surely wouldn’t be interested in them.

“That’s true, my dear,” Olenna told her. “And boys learn from their mothers how to treat women. Fathers are hardly around, after all. If their mothers teach them it’s alright, then that’s how they think as grown men. You can not undo a lifetime of inculcation.”

“I’d make myself invisible if I could,” Brienne grumbled as she put the put of stew on the table. She returned to the kitchen and returned with bowls. Placing one of each in front of Olenna then Sansa, she said, “The gods know I’ve tried enough.”

“Never do that,” Olenna advised her as she sat down. “None of what was done to you is your fault, Brienne.” She rested her wrinkled hand on her big, unlined palm. “Never forget that.”

Sansa took a bowl and started spooning stew into it. She took another and did the same, until everyone had a serving of the stew.

“I know.” Brienne said, her voice suddenly small. She flushed and shrugged. “It’s just that. . .sometimes it gets really hard, you know?”

Sansa gave her a sympathetic look. Olenna squeezed her hand then said, “Tell me about your playing, Brienne. How’s it going?”

A remarkable change went over Brienne. The vivid red of her skin softened to a pink that was almost becoming on her. Her blue eyes lit up in excitement. Music. The idea of talking about it brought life back to her woebegone face.

“I’ve been practicing,” she said. “My audition piece and. . .” she blushed. “I’ve also, um, done a composition.”

As Olenna beamed, Sansa squealed, “You mean an original composition?”

Her cheeks were as pink as roses. “I have no background in composition. Let’s make that clear so it’s very amateur and rough. But. . .I was called to compose so I thought to try. I was just playing around.”

“You have to play it for us,” Olenna urged her.

“Yeah! We’d love to hear it,” Sansa added.

“Oh, I don’t know. . .”

“We’re not experts. We know. But we have ears and we can tell the good from the bad. It will also be a chance for feedback, Brienne.”

Brienned looked torn. “Now that you put it that way. . .I’d love some feedback.”

“You should try getting a slot in one of those cafes. Like when they have open mic night and anyone can perform?”

Brienne’s eyes widened and she shook her head vehemently. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“It’s the perfect way to practice. Give you confidence. I mean, people get drunk in those events but you’re playing to build your confidence. And if you get feedback that would be great too. You should think about it, Bree.”

“Who knows, I might even make a night out of it,” Olenna said with a smile.

Brienne smiled. “It gets crowded and really smoky. Not to mention the some really poorly-behaved people.”

“I can be rude too, if needed.”

The hour passed easily with fun banter and fond laughter. They finished about half of the stew before declaring themselves full and possibly drunk from the delicious wine. Sansa looked too pink while Olenna seemed to have been unaffected by alcohol. She stood up and declared Brienne had to provide the after-dinner entertainment. Sansa, yawning, announced she would get the lemon meringue pie ready.

Brienne went to her apartment to retrieve her cello. She knew by heart the piece she would be playing at her audition so she didn’t bring the songbook anymore. But she took the pad of sheet music where she made the composition and decided to take it. She put the cello in its case, to protect it even when she would only be going next door.

She was at the door when her phone rang. Puzzled at the unrecognized number, she frowned then answered it. “Hello?”

“Miss Tarth,” came the cool, enunciated voice of the Supreme Creepiness. “This is Roose Bolton.”

Brienne froze.

“Miss Tarth?” He sounded impatient. “Are you there?”

Why was he calling her? “Yes, I am, Mr. Bolton. Um, how did you get my number?”

“In your employment record, of course.”

Of course. But the goosebumps on her nape didn’t abate. “Uh, what can I do for you?”

She clutched her cello as she waited for his answer.

“I’m hosting a dinner for prospective investors on Thursday night. I would like for you to provide the music.”

Brienne frowned. He wanted her to play?

Taking her worry as suspicion, he reeled her in, “My future associates have children interested in music. I’m sure that your playing would persuade them to hire you as their children’s tutor. It’s a good opportunity, Miss Tarth. I hope you would take it.”

She worked at Ruff N’ Roll on Thursdays. This and the one at Mop Busters were her only jobs. Being free from another job meant she had more time to practice and play but she could always use the money. And Roose Bolton was offering her an opportunity to practice and play at the same time.

It was an offer she would have jumped at despite his creepiness. If he hadn’t made a pass at her.

But I’m used to it, she reasoned. And he wouldn’t dare hit on me in front of his partners.

“Um, how long will I have to play?”

“Just a couple of hours. During the dinner and afterward. I will pay, of course.” Roose named his price and Brienne’s jaw dropped. That was how much she made in a month working three jobs! Plus, it was an opportunity for more employment. He was a creep but if she could make more money then she could forgive his behavior. “Do you accept?”

Cold fingers twisted her guts. She closed her eyes. “Y-Yes.”

 

 

Jaime stifled a yawn at Tywin Lannister’s voice. Tyrion was avidly listening to their father—at least, giving an award-winning performance of pretending to. Margaery, seated at Tywin’s left and across from the brother’s caught Jaime’s bored expression. She shook her head at him.

Casterly Rock was the stately ancestral house of the Lannisters. Twenty acres big with a stable, three tennis courts, an Olympic-sized pool, its own helipad, a garage that housed twenty-five vintage cars excluding the garage for the ones in use, with sprawling land between the main house and a smaller residence for guests, then a cluster of apartments for the staff, Casterly Rock was the size of a small town. Much of it was still surrounded by forest. The driveway, from the electric iron gates, was at least two miles long.

It was impressive outside but beginning to show its age. Much of the interior needed renovation but with no one to supervise religiously, things were falling apart. Jaime hated the place. Not because it was old but for what it represented—the burden of being a Lannister.

Tyrion was a dwarf but the elder son. He also inherited Tywin’s cunning and business acumen. Much of the responsibility of ensuring the Lannister legacy had been secured thanks to his marriage and children with Margaery. Jaime would always be grateful. Being the second son kept him from some responsibilities but not much. He had talent and proved it but he knew Tywin was still waiting for the day when he’d stop doing landscapes and develop an appreciation for spreadsheets. Jaime pushed around the bits of fish bone on his plate. Tywin and Tyrion were talking business but it wasn’t long from now when his father would remind him of his duty again.

He hated that.

He also hated that being in Casterly Rock reminded him of what he’d lost. Of who had been lost. He stared at the empty chair next to Margaery. Cersei hated having to sit there, further from Tywin, second after her husband, that damned Robert Baratheon. With the table between them, the Lannister twins exchanged reassuring looks, having long since formed and mastered a language of silence. It was disgusting how Tywin just went on as if he never had a daughter.

His sister had been a lot of things Mostly terrible. But she was Tywin’s daughter. For a man who talked little else outside of business, legacy and family, he had been quick to discard the memory of his daughter. Just like with Jaime’s alcoholism. Joanna’s death.

Jaime sighed and slowly let himself mentally ease back into the conversation between Tyrion and their father. Tyrion’s voice was the first he heard. He was practically pleading.

“Roose Bolton can not be trusted,” he was saying.

“I don’t trust the man,” Tywin said. “But we need his steel.”

“You taught me from the cradle that lions never need. If it’s steel we can’t do without, there are other businesses. Other companies.”

“The Boltons control fifty-seven percent of the steel in Westeros. If we want to be prioritized for government bids with infrastructure and construction, we need the Boltons. We must form an alliance with them.”

“The moment you sign any contract with Roose Bolton he’ll stab you in the back. I would rather make dealings with someone ready to throw me off the cliff or slash at my throat. At least they have the balls to look me in the eye when they do it. Roose Bolton has no honor—“

“I don’t care for the man’s honor. I need his steel.”

“And I say it is better if we go for the smaller companies and make an alliance with them. Our empire is vast but at some point we have to cut corners. We would end up spreading ourselves too thin and there won’t be any Lannister gold anymore. If only you have—“

“What?” Tywin demanded. “If only I sold the gold mines before they dried up we woudn’t be in this position?”

“Among other things!” Tyrion was clearly frustrated.

“Tywin.” Margaery’s cool, soft voice was a blade smoothly cutting through the thick tension. She glanced at Tyrion in what appeared to be a silent signal. Her husband sat back. “I may not run a corporation, but I agree with Tyrion. You should not trust Roose Bolton.”

“Even if we partner with other steel companies it’s not enough. If I’m going to partner with someone, I want only the one on top. A partnership with Bolton would boost our stock—“

“And have us forever associated with a traitor. You would taint our reputation like this?” Tyrion demanded.

“Careful.” Tywin’s voice was low but with a warning lilt. “You are being groomed to take over after my death but you are only son. And I am still in charge.”

“That you are,” Jaime suddenly said, startling everyone. “And you are not giving this decision enough thought. It’s a mistake, Father.”

Tywin snorted. “A mistake. Indeed. And give me a reason why should I listen to a son who was an art major? Who never even finished school?”

Jaime was used to Tywin’s tactics. “That’s the case, yes. But I read. I’ve seen this man’s name bloodying the dailies more than enough. You are making a mistake in thinking he would like to work with you. You’ve exposed yourself by the jugular by approaching him. He’s only waiting for when the contract is signed and you believe he abides by it.”

“You don’t think I’m capable.”

“I know anything in connection to Roose Bolton is the worst idea.”

“He has never dealt with anyone like me.”

“No, but he’s had practice. You’re the lion and he can’t wait to skin you alive. If he doesn’t shoot you between the eyes first.”

“Much as I’d like to take your wise words,” Tywin shot back sarcastically. “I’ve made up my mind.”

Tyrion threw his napkin down his plate. Margaery sighed. Jaime looked at the ceiling.

“On Thursday night, Roose Bolton expects us for dinner. You may air your grievances there,” Tywin told them. “But I refuse to compromise my partnership with Roose Bolton. You don’t trust him. I don’t trust him. All the more reason we turn the tables on him for once.” Looking at each of them in the eye before returning to Jaime and resting on him, he added. “I expect your attendance to Roose Bolton’s dinner. No questions excuses." 


	7. Drown In You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime is frustrated. Brienne makes a discovery.

The drive back to the city was quiet but still tensed. In between traffic lights, Jaime and Tyrion would glance at each other, their eyes mirroring the other’s worry. There was nothing to be done once Tywin knew what he wanted and how to get it, even if it was ill-advised. Ordinarily, the brothers, especially Tyrion since he worked directly under Tywin, would let it go. But Roose Bolton was an entirely different animal.

There was too little known about a man who owned a good chunk of the north and the immediate territories today. Aside from controlling and owning much of Westeros’ steel, he was also in textile and food processing. Roose Bolton owned a sizable empire, too small to rival Tywin’s. But it was well-known in the business world that all he needed was a foot past the door to begin stealing.

Jaime dropped off Tyrion and Margaery at their townhouse. His loft would be another three miles, a short drive, but dinners at Casterly often drained him. His tongue was felt like wet cotton, looking for the specific and promised relief of alcohol. Scotch. Yes, scotch.

In the past, he would drive to the nearest bar or club and pick up the most beautiful woman there. If none measured up, he went home with two. Sex and painting were two of the things that made him feel alive. He gave everything. Painting demanded it. With sex, it translated to a roughness that had a woman sometimes asking him to slow down. He hated doing it but women could be delicate despite having tongues that could rival the sharpest blade. But he would do as asked, his earlier enthusiasm now tempered by the need to take care. He would still enjoy the experience but as he hurried back in his clothes, ignoring the woman’s pleading caresses that he come back to bed, his body was once again tensed. He wondered how it would be. To fuck as roughly as he wished. To actually want to spend the night in a woman’s arms and wake up with her.

 Sex was satisfying. It never went past that. There were days he missed it but was too scared that in order to enjoy it, he often relied on alcohol. At nearly forty, Jaime was resigned to the idea that he’d probably only have his hand to make him feel good for the rest of his life.

His body was heavy as he stepped out of the car. Once inside the loft, he leaned heavily against the door and slowly slid towards the floor. Sitting down, he closed his eyes, face buried in his hands. The craving for alcohol was receding, but slowly. Too slowly.

He was exhausted but had no choice.

Three hours later, Jaime was back on the floor of his studio, surrounded by scattered sheets that bore charcoal sketches of that woman. Brienne. Ugliest and surliest woman in the world, that one but fuck. Her fucking eyes. Those fucking blue eyes. Sapphires. He rolled on his back, an arm flung over his eyes as he remembered. He remembered everything about her. Who could forget someone that ugly?

Hacked-off blond hair so pale it was almost white, looking rough and dry. It was too late before he realized he was comparing the sorry state of her hair to Cersei’s. Now, Cersei’s hair was beautiful. Soft and silky, the color of spun gold. Waves rippling down her back. He groaned, turning on his side and curling into a ball. Squeezing his eyes shut, his mind went back to that day. That van that stank of dog and the huge, ugly woman whose scowl made her gorgeous sapphire eyes stand out even more.

Was it normal to have so many freckles? She seemed to have hoarded them, probably lured by the false promise of beauty. Jaime was naturally observant and it didn’t escape his notice that despite her high-necked, shapeless, pink atrocity of a uniform, he had noticed things. Freckles. Around what was little revealed of her throat. Her arms. Hands. Now those hands were huge. Bigger than his.

But it was her face he kept going back to. The thick, straight eyebrows that were so pale they blended right into her forehead—the only place in her person where she didn’t have as many freckles. Think, pale eyelashes. A big, broad nose. Her mouth. The current fashion aesthetic was big mouths with full lips. Brienne’s fulfilled the criteria but hers looked as if she’d been punched right there. The lips were thick. Thick, red, semi-chapped. He licked his lips and sighed, opening his eyes.

He had been drawing her all night. He picked up one paper and stared at it. She was frowning, the deep lines formed between her eyebrows further emphasizing her ugliness. Nevertheless, he was intrigued. It was those eyes. They looked wrong on that face but he couldn’t imagine them on another’s, even if it was a face as beautiful as his sister’s had been.

Wearily, Jaime got on his knees to gather the scattered papers. Forty sheets. This was how much he had drawn in the last few hours, all to get rid of the forbidden craving. He absently glanced at his work before pausing over one. This was different from the rest.

His hands had flown faster than his mind could catch up and would just draw before tearing off the used sheet for a new one. Unlike everything else done during the frenzy, the careful, light strokes showed that he was beginning to sober up as he was doing this. This was the first difference. The second was Brienne was not scowling. He had drawn her as he imagined her looking when not being bothered by asshole like him. Still ugly but not as unpleasant.

She was also nude.

It was a sketch drawn from the waist up. He had imagined her taking off her soiled, pink uniform at the end of the day. It was a shapeless pink sack but they didn’t really conceal the feminine shape. But his sharp eyes detected not even the slightest swell of breast on Brienne’s body, or the curve of a hip. So he thought she must have small breasts. Really small breasts. Again, the idea intrigued him. She was strong and big, thinking she must have small breasts just rising so gently from her chest was such an interesting contrast to the to the rest of her.

The sketch had the shift unbuttoned, one side sliding down her shoulder to reveal one small breast, the other side just following, showing only the upper curve of one but giving a shy peek of a nipple. Did she have a boyfriend who stripped the deplorable off her at the end of the day and fucked her hard? Was she the type to leave him with scratches and bruises?

Or maybe she fucked this boyfriend. With her on top.

Jaime actually saw white for a second after imagining it. Damn, he thought, feeling a growing discomfort in his pants.

He quickly gathered the papers and put them neatly in a drawer, except for the nude sketch. Clutching it to his chest, he hurried to his bedroom, kicking off his shoes and practically ripping off his pants. He put the sketch leaning against the lamp by his bed. Then he licked his hand and grasped his cock.

Jaime groaned. Seven Hells.

He was a normal man with no girlfriend nor lover, with no interest at the moment. But when he masturbated there was always a woman he thought of. The forbidden had never completely lost its appeal to him so he imagined emerald eyes and gold blond hair spread over his thighs on nights he was too tensed and aroused to sleep. He was tired, indeed. Tensed but not as much. But Seven Bloody Hells was he hard and his mind had become a glittering space of blue. Sapphires.

As he touched himself, he imagined her eyes. Big. Soft. Drowsy. Her mouth opening in a gentle, hesitant O before taking all of him. As his palm skidded on his pubic hairs, he imagined how it would be comb his fingers through her hair, brushing them back. There would be tangles. That he was sure of. The texture rough. Yet for the first time he preferred it over silk and golden waves.

He came with a shout, feeling the warm stream of his release spilling over his thighs, the bed. As he panted to catch his breath, his eyes opened. When was the last time he had come this fast? And he felt boneless. Boneless and wonderful in a way he didn’t think could be possible. He turned his head and stared at the scrawl he’d made of Brienne.

He couldn’t look away. Even as his sleep began to claim him, he struggled to keep his eyes open.

 

“You didn’t have to say yes to him right away,” Sansa was saying to Brienne the next day. They were in Mop Busters uniforms, cleaning a new client’s apartment. She turned away from scrubbing the floor to tell her best friend more gently, “The man is horrible. At least you should have talked to me first, Bree.”

“I know,” Brienne admitted, looking away from the top of the shelves she was brushing. She was standing on the kitchen counter sink, hunching slightly to avoid hitting her head on the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling. “I know I shouldn’t have but I really need the money.”

“I could have loaned you the money.”

“No.” In this, Brienne was firm. “I don’t believe in loans, not when I’m physically able to work for myself. It’s just that. . .I hadn’t realized how much I relied on three jobs to keep me afloat until I lost this tutoring. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken out a life insurance yet.”

“No. You never know when you’ll need it so you have to,” Sansa insisted before resuming her task.

“I want to focus on school. I can only take in one job once I start. If I rented out the apartment at least I’ll have a steadier means of income but the dorm fees would just eat away at what I’ve saved.”

“Brienne, Marillion is two train rides and a bus away from you. Then another ten blocks.”

“I know. But that’s why I need money. And just one night of performing for Roose Bolton is what I earn in a month working three jobs. And more. So I can’t turn it down despite how he was.”

Brienne’s stomach had been upset since agreeing to take on the job but what else could she do? Owning the apartment saved her from rent but there were utilities, food, commute, insurance and other incidentals that had money going through her like water between the fingers. She absolutely refused to touch the savings she set aside for school. The job over at the Bolton’s was only for a night but it would be a big help. And if it resulted to another tutoring employment, all the better.

“When is this?”

Brienne tucked the mini-broom in her pocket and swept a dry white cloth across the shelf. “This coming Thursday.”

“Fuck,” Sansa suddenly cursed.

She stopped and glanced at her. “What?”

“I won’t be around Thursday because I have this dinner with my parents,” Sansa confessed. “I really don’t want you going there alone, Brienne.”

“I won’t be. It’s a party.”

“So he says. How can you trust this man after he came on to you?”

Brienne shrugged. “Even if he had, who would believe me?”

“Even if he had?” Sansa shot to her feet and went to her. Since Brienne was perched on a sink, all Sansa could see were her calves and freckles. “He stared at you inappropriately and thought to talk about your ‘charms.’ Where in the world is that not coming on?”

“Who’s going to believe me?”

“I believe you. Why do you ask that?”

“I know what I look like Sansa.”

“Damn it, Bree, you could have been in a fucking turtleneck and one of those padded coats, or a slinky dress. It is never a woman’s fault however some pervert sees her. I don’t like this at all. I like it even less that you’re going there on your own.”

“You can’t be implying that Mr. Bolton came up with this ruse just to lure me?”

Sansa was grim. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“He wouldn’t. He can’t.”

Sansa looked helpless and pleaded. “At least take someone with you. Olenna. Or Pod. That nice super of yours. Jon Something.”

Brienne frowned. “I’m not a baby. I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t doubt that. But if he knows you won’t be alone—“

“Why would he come on to me again? I made it clear, I think, that I wasn’t interested. That should be enough.” Despite her conviction, Brienne’s sweeping motions faltered. “It should be.”

“For your sake, I hope it is. But please, Brienne. Don’t go there alone.”

Sansa tugged at the bottom of her shorts to get her attention. Annoyed, Brienne rolled her eyes and glared at her. Sansa was looking at her with pleading eyes.

 Since Selwyn died, the people in her life who really cared for her were less than the fingers she had in one hand. Brienne was worried but didn’t like talking about it more than she had—she quickly regretted telling Sansa about being hired by Roose again. But she needed the money. She also had to believe that Roose Bolton was not so stupid as to attempt coming on to her again. Her, of all people, really. She frowned, remembering another man. Roose Bolton had scared her but this other man, this man named Jaime, had hurt her. Brienne was used to people treating her like dirt but Jaime with his cracks about wanting to paint her and dreaming of her had been particularly hurtful.

“I promise.”

They finished cleaning an hour later. Sansa wrote the bill and collected the tip left in the jar. It was an easy job so they grinned at the twenty-dragon tip. They packed up their supplies and went to meet Grenn and the rest of the crew.

Their next assignment was back at that artist’s place in Sword Drive. Green dropped them off there and Sansa unlocked the place. Brienne reviewed the list the client had forwarded Harald today. The studio was still off-limits, but areas needing extra attention for this job was the bedroom and the kitchen. Since the girls had more or less picked on these places before, they didn’t have to discuss who will be responsible for which room.

There were more instructions awaiting in the bedroom. Brienne found a list on the bedside table: 1. Change sheets. 2. Take out rubbish from the en suite bathroom. 3. Organize the closet. See closet for more instructions. The closet looked to take a while so she went there first.

There really wasn’t much to organize but much of what she had done since working in this loft was slowly getting undone. Long-sleeved shirts mingled with t-shirts. Drawers hung open. Shoes scattered, pushed on opposite corners of the room. It was a mess left behind by someone in a hurry to dress than someone who was a habitual slob. Brienne got to work.

She folded clothes, put shirts and pants back in hangers. Placed them with other similar clothes. She crawled on her hands and knees looking for the partners of shoes. This took some time and by the time the shoes were put together again and put in a shelf, her palms and knees were red.

Brienne went on to change the sheets. The replacement set was at the foot of the bed, a plain, blue-and-white striped collection of pillowcases, top sheet, the bed sheet and a comforter. She stripped the bed, folding the old sheets into a neat pile before spreading the new ones on it.

She spread her palms across the sheets to flatten them to perfection. As she straightened up, the back of her thigh hit the bedside table, shaking the lamp and jostling its drawer open. Wincing, she turned to straighten the lamp. She rubbed the spot at the back of her thigh, which was quick to bruise.

The drawer was still open so she moved to close it. She was about to push it when a particular content caught her eye. Curious, she pulled the drawer open, her eyes widening.

It was a sketch. Brienne would doubt first if it was her but the face of the woman was undeniably hers. And the uniform. Her Ruff N’ Roll uniform.

_She was also naked._

Shock spread through her like ice stretching across a river. She should put it back in the drawer, run to Sansa and yell that they get out of here. But her feet were glued on the spot. She couldn’t move. By the time, she did, there were voices coming toward her. Voices. Sansa’s. And a man’s. She gulped. _She knew that voice._

Brienne was still clutching the paper when Jaime appeared at the stairs. His face mirrored her shock but unlike them, he was quick to recover.

_“You.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I want to apologize for being remiss in posting updates. Things are just so crazy right now and I'm often exhausted. But you can look forward to an update sooner than it has been going recently. 
> 
> Now, back to the story. I haven't tagged Jaime/Cersei and all the other tags yet because that's going to be dealt with in future updates. But clues in this chapter should give you an idea. I'm also trying to find a way to show that relationship without going through the sex part because, honestly, it's just eww. I've written it but I don't like it. So I'm re-writing what I have to make it more of a suggestion. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience and for supporting me. It keeps me going, that's why I hate not being able to post regularly.


	8. "What Do You Think You Look Like?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things come to light.

The first time Brienne laid eyes on Jaime, she had been cross and cranky from hours of washing dogs and reeking of them. It did not stop her from literally staggering at the sight of him because he was that handsome. There were men who made you weak in the knees. Men who took you aback. Seeing Jaime for the first time felt like a hard punch to the gut.

The second time, Brienne was realizing as she stared wordlessly at his sketch of her then back at him, the effect was still as strong. The bedroom took up nearly the entire upper part of the loft yet now that Jaime was in it, it felt small and getting smaller. He stood right under the skylight, making his hair look like spun gold and his emerald eyes glow. The light loved him, touching reverently on the elegant, slim ridge of his nose, the faint afternoon stubble darkening the hard square of his jaw. His white t-shirt was frayed at the cuff of the right sleeve and it was now threadbare from age and many washings. His jeans had a well-worn look and the rips and snags by the sides of his thighs and on the left knee were real instead of something done on purpose. Brienne’s first impression of him was he had a lean figure. That was still the case. She just hadn’t noticed the hard bulges of muscles on his upper arms and the dark vein running down their long, firm length.

Their eyes met. His gaze was stunned and curious, hers, hurt and angry. Screwing her lips tight, she glared at the sketch then shoved it toward him. “What’s this?”

Jaime stared first at her then the sketch. His eyes seemed to glaze but it was a trick of light. He looked right back at her, steady and calm. “I told you I dreamed of you. What the hell are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” She demanded, flinging the sketch away. She was shaking and it gave her satisfaction seeing his eyes follow the fall of the paper. He sighed and picked it up, and held it protectively to his chest.

“I live here.” He stared at the logo of Mop Busters sewn on the left pocket of her t-shirt. “You clean?”

“Not anymore,” Brienne muttered, trying to walk past him. But Jaime blocked her way and she hissed, for he had done it so easily. His hands cupped her arms and she shook him away. He quickly held up his hands. Brienne stepped away. She was taller, but not much. He could look at her easily in the eyes without having to strain his neck or raise his chin.

“Let me explain.”

“Why?” She cried out. “Why does this keep happening to me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know what I fucking look like but that doesn’t give you the right!”

Confused, Jaime demanded, “What the fuck do you think you look like?”

For the first time since Roose Bolton came on to her in his office, Brienne felt tears prick her eyes. A sob popped past her lips, startling and making her red with mortification. Again, she tried to walk past Jaime. Once again he held her by the shoulders.

As her body heaved from another loud sob it strained to control, he spoke gently. “Brienne. What do you think you look like?”

He said her name as if it was something sweet. No mocking, no judgment. No nothing. She blinked back at him and sighed. “Look, you have to let me go. I—I’m not comfortable.”

She hugged herself and looked away. Jaime, concern in his face, opened his mouth to speak but the rapid, light footsteps going up the stairs alerted them of another presence. Brienne brushed a fist across her eyes as Sansa reached the top of the stairs. Jaime had his hands in his pockets when Brienne finally lowered her hand. Sansa looked at her then at him, confused. “What’s going on? I heard some pretty loud conversation.”

“I was just telling Jaime here that we’re done cleaning.”

“You mean Mr. Lannister?” Sansa asked, frowning at Jaime.

Now Brienne’s face scrunched tight. “Mr. Lannister?”

Jaime shrugged helplessly. “That’s me.”

Brienne’s head was spinning. Lannister. The named pinged and banged in her head like an out of control firework let loose in a confined space. Faces scrolled through her mind as if swiping through a touch screen. Voice hit her all at once. Then one stood out. Scratchy. Sarcastic. Amused. Then Olenna Tyrell, smiling in that gentle, playful, mocking way of hers as she told Brienne about Jaime being quite an idiot but at least he was handsome. And quite talented with the paintbrush. She remembered that night, when she brought chicken dinner over and they watched the news of Jaime’s accident. Margaery had to leave suddenly before they could eat.

“Your brother is married to Margaery. She’s my neighbor’s granddaughter.”

“Olenna Tyrell?”

She nodded.

Jaime let out a snorting sound, first looking at the ceiling and a rough chuckle issuing from his lips. Damn. Even the man’s throat was beautiful and golden as the rest of him. Then he lowered his head back down, first glancing at Sansa before his eyes rested on Brienne.

“Olenna told Margaery about Mop Busters, who then recommended I hire them. Well, I guess the world really is that small.”

“Small as it is, time is still running and valuable. But I’m really not. . .comfortable, Mr. Lannister.” She stared pointedly at the paper he held. The distress was still on her face but there was a defiance in her eyes now. She turned to Sansa. “We should go.”

“Brienne, we’re not—“

“We’re done. Don’t worry.” Brienne assured her.

Sansa still looked unsure but nodded. This time Jaime didn’t stop her.

They quietly packed up their supplies, Sansa shooting Brienne questioning, furtive looks. Brienne put the keys on the counter and looked up. Jaime was descending the stairs.

“I don’t mean any harm by it, Brienne.”

She shook her head. “I’m a complete stranger. You don’t do that—“

“What? Dream?” Jaime asked. “Fantasize?”

This time, Sansa spoke up.

“Alright. Someone better tell me what’s going on. I just spent over an hour cleaning up here. I am not going to let that pass unnoticed or unappreciated.” She looked at Brienne for answers. When her friend was not forthcoming, she turned to Jaime, crossing her arms. “What did you do?”

“We’ve met before.” Jaime replied after a moment. “I asked if I could paint Brienne.”

As Brienne squirmed and shifted her weight from one foot to the next, Sansa squawked. “What? That was you? You’re the guy with the dog named Honey?” Her blue eyes narrowed at him. “You’re the guy who was hitting on my friend here.”

“What— _No!_ ” Jaime looked aghast. “I didn’t.”

 “Oh please.” Sansa smirked and propped a hand on her hip. “`I dreamed of you’, `I want to paint you,’ and all that crap. You don’t look like the sort who needs to refer to the dumbest handbook around for picking up women. Unless you're just good-looking with nothing between the ears.”

Brienne, really needing to leave because the loft was beginning to feel too small and hot, said, “Sansa, we should leave. Now.”

But Jaime and Sansa were on a roll. The once-over Jaime gave Sansa was mocking and condescending—hardly the kind the younger woman often received. “Look, princess, you’re clearly too young to have heard about me. But I’m an artist. Not as well-known now but well-known years ago. Ask your parents. I didn’t hit on your friend here. I asked to paint her and that’s exactly what I meant. It wasn’t a ploy to get her to come here and have her take off her clothes.”

“Yet you drew me,” Brienne gulped, “nude.”

Jaime’s answer was to give her a too-lingering look from the top of her messy hair down to the tips of her sneakers. In between, he stared in her eyes, licked his lips as he looked at her mouth. He gaze was caressing as they lingered on her broad shoulders before continuing the rest of the way down.

“Let me paint you, Brienne,” he asked, his voice husky.

“Alright. Enough. Look, Mister, I don’t care that you’re sort of connected to Olenna but you don’t ever come up to women you don’t know and asking to paint them! And now you have a nude drawing of her” Sansa shook her head. This time, her motions were frantic as she threw the rest of their supplies into the bag before grabbing Brienne by the wrist. “No need to pay us. But we can tell you for sure that this is the last time we’ll be here.”

They let themselves out. As Brienne took a deep breath of the dry, summer air, the door suddenly flung open. Sansa shrieked and Brienne quickly threw an arm out to protect her. But Jaime moved no further from the door. His eyes searched her face.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “What did you mean when you said you know what you look like?”

 

Brienne was so distraught over what happened that though she hated to lie, she went along with Sansa’s suggestion that she lie about getting sick so Harald could immediately send a replacement. She hated to lose a day’s wages when she wasn’t physically ill but she had just about had her fill of men thinking they could take advantage simply because she was ugly.

So she went home, barely paying attention and moving by rote and body memory. By the time she arrived at her apartment, she felt sticky and dirty from the day’s events and the city grime. She locked herself in the shower, shrugged off her clothes and cried.

And cried. Hard, heart-wrenching sobs.

Abuse was nothing new to Brienne. Her odd, ugly looks and tall, freakish form had made her a target for bullying from the first day of school. Children stuck gum in her hair, stuck their feet out so she would trip, or straight up called her an ugly freak to her face. The onset of puberty only worsened things. In less than two years, she shot up to nearly seven inches in height, towering the rest of her class and nearly the entire student body of the local high school at six feet tall when she was only fourteen. She stood six-foot-three come graduation, and this had been her height ever since.

Brienne’s solace was music. In the marching band, she really wasn’t ridiculed but the kids there kept to themselves. If there was a clique, she wasn’t part of it. Being part of it should have given her some protection from bullying but as with everything, just made things worse. She was the happiest when high school finally came to an end. But that only lasted a short while.

Selwyn’s death had not only made her orphan. He took with him any semblance of security and safety Brienne had. Her father was a quiet man who kept to himself but his presence was a reassurance. She knew that no matter how mean kids got, at the end of school there was hot chocolate waiting for her, and her father waiting for when she would play the cello for him. He didn’t encourage her to play but when she discovered her Mom’s old cello when she was eight, she had been eager to share something that had been a part of a person she never knew. Selwyn never stopped her. He let her do as she wanted and was just there for her.

Since his death, her world had been on a tailspin. The problem of money would never go away. After settling the hospital bills and outstanding debts and losing the house over missed mortgage, there was hardly anything left. It was just enough for the apartment she bought and several thousand dollars to keep her from starving for another six months. Brienne had been working like a dog ever since.

Despite wanting to concentrate only on work, part of her still longed for companionship. Friendship. She was so used to being alone that she didn’t really have a good judge of character. One of her first jobs was a waitress in a diner. One of the cooks there, Hyle Hunt, had been friendly and she went to the movies with him. He was shorter and more plain-looking than handsome. He kissed sloppily and groped her breasts in the cinema but he didn’t call her a freak. Or any of the mean names she was used to. She thought she could care for the man.

All that ended when Myranda, one of the quieter waitresses, alerted her to a pool Hyle had with the other cooks. Brienne had told him she was a virgin so she wasn’t ready. Never did she think that he would pretend to like her just so he could win the bet. Brienne quit, but not before confronting Hyle in the kitchen and giving him a black eye. On her way out, one of the waitresses sneered, “What the fuck’s her problem? Ugly broad like that should at least be grateful someone wants to fuck her.”

Since then, she looked for jobs where there was minimal interaction with other employees, where she could pass unnoticed, ideally. But working at the docks just about killed her and left her too exhausted to practice the cello. Cleaning houses and garages, mowing lawns, paid but not a lot. To be a babysitter these days required all these certificates—money that she’d rather spend on something more sure. She had only a high school degree and a year of college in a music school. There was little to offer employers but she wasn’t completely zero either. She used her friendship with the Starks to get her first cello teaching job. Other jobs followed soon after.

Teaching music was seasonal, and cleaning for Mop Busters was only great during the summer. When she was lucky, there were summers she got work as a camp counselor so she was able to lease her tiny apartment for the season or at least rent it out. She had to be creative, to be greedy about work and really put herself out there but four years later, she not only had another shot at school, she could pay for it.

But Roose Bolton. And Jaime Lannister

Brienne rinsed her body and toweled herself dry. In front of the mirror, she stared at her swollen eyes and tear-stained face. She knew she was ugly. But no matter how much she fought that it didn’t give people the right to abuse her, she was getting tired. She splashed cold water on her face to lessen the swelling of her eyes then threw on a ratty tank top and shorts. She took her cello and sat down, cradling the instrument gently on her thighs, bow positioned firmly yet in a relaxed way. With a deep breath, she started playing the Two Swords Concerto.

She lost herself in the soothing strains of the music. The cello was always a source of comfort and strength, promising that no matter how bad things got, everything will always be okay. As she played, she remembered a story of the composition’s probable origins. Two Swords Concerto was a popular classical piece but also one of the most difficult. She picked it as her audition piece because she loved the story behind it, and the rigor demanded to play it well her second reason.

The story was about two swords reforged from a great broadsword of legend, whose name was lost through the passage of time. Since it was exceedingly long and hefty, it had more than enough to make two swords out of, but one was longer than the other. The longer sword was named Oathkeeper and the smaller one Crimson Roar. They were wielded by two of the best but unnamed warriors of Westeros. Best friends. Brothers at arms. Brothers who protected and loved each other.

Yet, towards the end of a war, brothers who were faced with the impossible choice: to kill the other or be killed.

The story ended with both brothers violating the oath they swore to adhere to. The brother who wielded Oathkeeper stabbed himself with it. The one who owned Crimson Roar went on to attack the leaders that put them in this position. He took down half of the council before getting stabbed in the back. Their death and sacrificed restored the honor that had begun to stain the name of Kingsguard. The Kingsguard was Westeros’ military arm, and Brienne’s father had served in the army in his youth. He told Brienne this story as a child and she had loved it ever since.

She was still playing long after the sun had sunk down. She had gone through several versions of the piece, just for funsies. Now she collapsed on her chair, spine sinking deep while she hugged the cello to her chest. Her legs fell open.

Brienne had no idea how long she sat like this, the cello held gently against her chest, half-sprawled in a chair. She would be content to pass the night here if not for the doorbell suddenly ringing. She frowned, turning her head slowly to stare at the source of the sound before getting up.

“Did you forget the keys?” She asked, shuffling barefoot towards the door. Sansa should have been home earlier. It made Brienne feel guilty that her friend was probably coming home late to do her work. She should have at least made something nice as a gesture of thanks to Sansa.

“Say, I was thinking— _Holy shit_.”

Disbelievingly, Brienne could only stare at the man standing at her doorway.

“You,” she breathed.

“Yes.” Green eyes looked into hers. Jaime Lannister cleared his throat. “Me. Can I come in?”


	9. Lady Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne finally talk.

For the first time in years, Jaime faced the new day not only with a renewed sense of purpose but he also felt alive. It was like being able to see everything for the first time yet also seeing a lot more clearly. The white walls of the loft, he discovered, were actually brushed ever so slightly with gray. The sun outside was the color of a wobbly egg yolk and the sky was a series of shades of blue piled on with divine brushes to create such a color. He saw color palettes, saw everything begging to be rendered on canvas.

He put Brienne’s sketch in the drawer before heading off to the bathroom. The shaving kit was left untouched in the cabinet behind the mirror so it was off to the shower straight off. There was no embarrassment in washing off the sticky stripes of his come from his thighs this time. He shampooed and soaped, scrubbed until his skin was pink.

There was no Margaery to bother him today and he wondered how much better things could get. The vigor thrumming inside him was pushing him towards activity, to lose himself in concentration, motions, towards creation. Or creations, he thought, cracking a piece of egg over a pan where bacon was frying to a perfect crisp. He put bread in the toaster, brewed coffee. The drive that put him off his ass so early in the morning got all the more amped up as he devoured the food.

He spent the rest of the morning in the studio, sketching Brienne one after the other. It wasn’t easy because she wasn’t there but he could remember. Remembered everything. The messy blond hair. The wide, full-lipped mouth. The big nose. Freckles. Those eyes. Above all those eyes. Fuck if they weren’t the most perfect things he had ever seen. He dug out what little paints he had because a lot of them had dried off already in their tubes. Blues upon blues were blended, mixing a dollop of white, then more blues. It was frustrating to work from memory. Even more that he knew that there was no way to capture the sapphire color of her eyes without her right in the room with him. He needed her.

How the hell was he going to convince this woman how much he needed her—how important she was to him? She was a skittish, resistant, stubborn thing. It was like dealing with an unyielding door, built to withstand all the force and violence upon it. He thought about calling Tyrion and hiring a detective to cough up records on her. He still couldn’t believe that she was real. It was highly preferable that she was a lot more pleasant than how she came across but over time, he thought, over time he’d wear her out. No one could be so against being painted, right?

Now that he knew where she was employed, it was only a matter of time before he got something more concrete about her. Didn’t mean he couldn’t start preparing now, however. So Jaime made two charcoal sketches of her. The first was of her scowl after he said he dreamed of her. There was no forgetting that—her eyes had darkened to near-black and she looked ready to kill him with her bare hands. The second had her wearing an expression of doubt, with eyebrows drawn together, full lips pursed. It didn’t make her any more attractive but Jaime thought she looked ready to give an angry kiss. She was uglier, true, but his cock disagreed. So he was grateful that she’d slammed the door to his face and threatened to call the cops on him when he insisted on speaking to her.

The angry growling of his stomach alerted him to lunch. Jaime put away the sketches in a drawer with care before closing it. Then he gathered up his supplies and put them back in their shelves. Usually he just ate a salad and a sandwich but his body demanded something more substantial today. He went out to get a meatball sub with four different kinds of cheese.

While he was out, he went to his favorite art supply store. He stocked up on paints, paintbrushes, paper, charcoal. Jaime ordered by the bulk, quick to surrender his credit card and signing his name on the slip without even glancing at the amount at the end. He would have to wait three days but the store promised to rush some of the items. It felt good knowing he was sure to do something in the following days. The better feeling was knowing he was actually going to see it through the end.

Jaime went for a walk around the city before deciding to turn towards home. His earlier euphoria had wiped his mind clean of what today entailed. As he opened the front door of his loft, he heard music. His face was grave, anticipating that intruders had broken in, when a redhead walked right in front of him, holding a mop.

From an early age, Jaime had trained himself to see and observe. The redhead’s profile faced him but it was enough to confirm that she was pretty. Thick, auburn hair in a no-nonsense ponytail, high cheekbones, a soft, gentle arc formed where her jaw connected to her throat. She was slim but her black-and-navy uniform looked good against her. Jaime realized that this was the cleaning service Margaery had hired. He was supposed to be out while they worked. He closed the door, the sound quiet, but the girl’s head turned toward him, pale blue eyes widening when she was him by the door.

He held up his hands. “It’s okay. I’m Jaime. I live here.”

She was young. In college most likely or in her early twenties. Her loveliness may have incited attraction and lust from men but not Jaime. There was no denying that she was one of the more beautiful faces around, and despite the t-shirt and shorts, he could tell she had a good figure. Full, thrusting breasts, a narrow waist, curving hips, slender, long legs.

After Jaime had looked his fill at a person, the next question he asked himself was whether he wanted to render him or her in a painting.

No for this girl. She was. . .generic. Boring. Predictable.

Now she was frowning at him and she pulled out a sheet from her pocket, reading it. “Jaime Lannister?”

“That’s right. That’s me.”

As she put it back in her pocket, she said, “You’re not supposed to be here. It’s okay, but we still have quite a lot of work to do.” He had to smother a chuckle. This girl was implying with smooth subtlety that though he was paying them, while they were working, he was in the way.

“I understand. I’ll just need to get some things from my room then I’ll be out of your way,” Jaime said, walking past her and launching up the stairs.

“My partner’s there,” she called after him then resumed working.

When Jaime reached the bedroom, his heart dropped to the floor. The girl’s partner had turned out to be her. The giant, ugly blond with the awful pink uniform. She was wearing a black t-shirt and navy shorts now and they looked better on her. He froze seeing her staring at a piece of paper. Despite realizing the wrong impression she was taking from that drawing, he couldn’t look away from the remarkable changes of expression in her face. Surprise, with her eyebrows shooting to her forehead and sapphire eyes getting big. Followed by the grim realization that she was staring at herself, and her nose reddened as if burned by the sun. When she looked up and saw him, the betrayal and hurt were in the blush getting more vivid with each passing second and the violent wobbling of her chin.

Still ugly. Uglier in the daylight but he couldn’t tear his eyes off her. _Those eyes._

It called to mind an event from the past he would rather forget: being fourteen and Joanna discovering a nude portrait he had made of his sister. Maybe fourteen wasn’t too innocent but they were brother and sister. There was nothing there. Not at first. Cersei had only removed her top because she was too shy about taking off everything else. She crossed her hands over her breasts, already full despite her young age. This was how Jaime drew her. He just wanted to practice and his sister volunteered. But Joanna refused to believe him. A week later, Cersei was sent to boarding school. They wouldn’t see each other for nearly two years, at Joanna’s funeral.

Joanna had been horrified. Brienne looked hurt and Jaime stepped forward to reach for her. But she refused comfort, refused to hear any of his explanations—not that he tried hard enough. He was too caught up by changes in her face, the emotions flitting through her eyes. Then when her broken voice uttered that she knew what she looked like but he had no right, it was like breaking through the surface. Jaime didn’t realize just how hurt she was until that moment. “What do you think you look like?” He had asked. But Brienne’s partner showed up and there was nothing more to do. Even when he chased after them and asked again, Brienne refused to answer. Instead she gave him her eyes again, breathtaking sapphires shining with her distress.

Right now she was standing in front of him, her big hand grasping the doorknob like it was a lifeline. The sight of her was an attack to his senses, his thoughts. Seeing her so close was doing things to him that shouldn’t happen—knees weakening, cock thrusting stubbornly against the limits of his underwear, his pants. _I’ve been without a woman too long._

But he couldn’t stop drinking her in and there was so much of her. The mess of her hair that he realized now was more straw than pale blond. The freckles splashed from her forehead down to her legs—Jaime had never seen anyone covered in so many freckles. Her shoulders were broad, wider than his. As he had guessed, she had small breasts—more tits than breasts, really. He was confused about his reaction to such an ugly creature but his mouth watered at her nipples pressing against the white fabric. It wasn’t cold in her apartment. Jaime had to take a deep breath upon wondering if her nipples were so prominent, if they were often hard. Her drawstring shorts revealed thick but firm-looking thighs. And the legs. _How was it possible to have such long legs?_

He looked back at her face, focusing on her eyes. Finding his voice, he held up a box of pizza. “I come in peace.” He held the leather portfolio under his other arm.

She frowned. “What do you want? How did you know I live here?”

“You said Olenna’s your neighbor. That didn’t need a lot of math.”

“Oh.” Her eyes dropped to her feet and a blush swept from her face down to her chest. Jaime shuddered, not from revulsion, but the overwhelming urge to press his tongue on each spot. _I need to fuck a woman soon._

“Brienne,” and he liked saying her name. “I ask again, can I come in?”

She worried her thick lip until it was red and wet. Jaime clutched the portfolio, glad his hands were full. He wouldn't be able to resist touching the slick, swollen flesh. Then she nodded, stepping aside.

As he walked past her, he caught the scent of lemons—clean and fresh, vital. It was so much better than the dog stink she carried with her the first time although, he amended to himself, if she was wearing the tank top then he wouldn’t mind so much. Brienne closed the door.

Her apartment was a humble studio. He saw everything at once: the half-pen curtain that served as a partition between her bed and the rest of the space, the loveseat by the window, with a pretty, blue cello resting against it. A dining table for two against the wall and the kitchen, with a sink and about a quarter of the size of a regular counter. Jaime’s closet was bigger but there was a cozy, intimate feel to the space, rather than pristine and elegant.

“You can put the pizza there,” Brienne pointed at the dining table. She walked toward the fridge then paused, blushing. Staring at him then back at her feet, she mumbled, “Um, I don’t have anything to drink. I have water. But no beer. I have one can of soda and it’s yours, if you want.”

Jaime gave her a pleased smile. “Water is fine.”

She looked at him questioningly.

Flushing, he put the box on the table, the portfolio on a spot on the floor near his seat. “I haven’t touched alcohol in years, Brienne. I’d rather keep at it.”

_Fucking Seven Hells. She’s going to think that I’m an alcoholic pervert._

She reddened again— _does she ever stop blushing_ —before stammering, “You can have the soda.” Yet she also sounded stubborn, defiant. Contrasts, Jaime thought.

“Only if you don’t want it.”

“It’s yours.” She growled.

“We should share.”

She blinked at him, clearly startled.

She could be obstinate but sweet, he realized. “I would like for us to share, Brienne.”

“Okay.”

Jaime flipped open the box while Brienne got glasses. It was sweet that she poured a perfect half of the soda into each glass. He tucked the cover of the pizza box at the bottom so there was space for their glasses. Her fingers brushed his when handing him the glass. Jaime nearly groaned out loud at finding her skin there to be soft and smooth. _I should go find myself a woman after this._

She sat down and he followed suit. Warily, she asked, “What are you doing here, Jaime?”

She shifted, bumping her knee on his. Jaime stiffened but Brienne, unaware, continued, “It’s been a long, emotionally exhausting day. As much as I appreciate the pizza, I need you to be straight with me. What’s your angle?”

“I wish to make you understand.”

“You _wish_ to make me understand?”

Well, he had to be a bit of an asshole to get what he wanted from her. That was the plan. It got him what he wanted, always. This wouldn’t be the case with Brienne. As skittish as she was, even when she spent more time talking to her feet than to people, she saw things. Read him clearly. She did sound tired, her voice thick with gravel. Her sapphires were not as bright. But she stared at him with sharp scrutiny, indicating that she refused to be fooled and despite all his good intentions and the pizza, if he stepped off, she would kick him out.

Jaime wasn’t scared. In fact, his blood was singing. He wanted to dare her. _Hit me or kiss me, wench._ His cock leaped in his pants in anticipation of the latter. _Yeah, I would prefer the kiss. Or rather, that I kiss you._

He changed tactics. “You play the cello?”

Startled at the sudden turn of the conversation, Brienne took a quick swallow of her soda. “Yes.”

“Professionally?” She was young but he thought she must be close to graduating.

She flushed and shook her head. “N-No. Actually, I’m working to get back to school. Um. . .my studies were interrupted due to certain events.”

“Music school?”

“The Marillion, yes.”

Holy shit. Jaime had heard of the Marillion. Serious students of music practically killed themselves to be admitted there. As he looked at her, realizing there was more to the ugly, freckled wench, Brienne hastened to add, “I was there. Before. But. . .but. . .my father got sick. I had to take care of him. By the time things were. . .over, my leave of absence had passed. And I couldn’t. . .you must have gone to a specialized school. You know how expensive it gets.”

Brienne had skimmed over some pertinent information but it wasn’t hard to deduce exactly what she had left unsaid. The father was dead. It must be a long, complicated illness to wipe out the finances of the family. A leave of absence was only good for a year. Her failure to return meant she had been gone from school for a while. Jaime saw faint lines under her eyes.

“How long were you at Marillion?”

“Just a year.”

“Your father.” His voice was gentle. “How—how long? If you don’t mind my asking.”

She took a deep breath. This was still a hard subject for her. “F-Four years. Next month.”

Fuck, she was young. At her age, I was chasing and fucking every skirt. I was doing what I wanted. It was embarrassing. He gestured that she help herself to the pizza and she hesitated. So he took a slice. She followed, but only bit into hers after he did so.

“I’m sorry. That must be difficult.” He remembered where she worked. “Still difficult.”

“Yeah, it is. I really miss my Dad. I have no family left, you see. There’s Sansa and the Starks but they’re old family friends. They wanted to take me in before but I couldn’t. . .her brother just had an accident and I didn’t want to add to their burden even more.”

“Sansa?”

“The girl I was with earlier? At your place.”

The boring one, Jaime thought. Going back to what she had said, he asked carefully, “There’s really no one for you?”

Brienne’s smile was shaky. “I’m the last of our House.” When he looked confused, she added, “I’m a Tarth.”

A Tarth. An old family from the Stormlands. Jaime thought the House had died out years ago but there was still one. And it was just so. . .it wasn’t surprising that it was Brienne. She was the type to bloom despite the adversity. She walked with hunched shoulders and was probably sensitive but she had a strength about her that went beyond the promise of her big body.

“I’m really sorry to hear that.” Jaime knew how it was to lose a parent but he had never been alone. His father was still around. Tyrion. His baby brother with his infuriating wife. As much as Tyrion and Margaery annoyed him by treating him like a baby, Jaime was grateful. Without them, he wouldn’t have even thought of going to AA.

“You didn’t come here for my sad life story, Jaime.” This time, she was more confident in helping herself to another slice. “And I really would rather not talk about it tonight. What do you want from me?”

“I would love it if you gave me the opportunity to paint you.”

She made a face. He titled his head. “You find the prospect unpleasant.”

“Can’t you see what I look like?”

“And we’re back to that. What do you think you look like, Brienne?”

Anger reddened her face. “Have you come here to watch me humiliate myself even more? Like you haven’t done enough?”

“What exactly have I done?” He shot back, frustrated at all her assumptions. Her false, insulting, hurtful assumptions. “All I’ve asked is for the chance to paint you. I said I dreamed of you. Fantasized. What the fuck is so humiliating about that?”

“You wouldn’t know! All my life I’ve been called ugly and made fun of, treated as something less than human. Jaime, people actually made bets as to who would get to fuck me. They pretended to be nice so that I’d drop my pants and let them fuck me! So forgive me for reacting like this whenever you say stupid shit like wanting to paint and dreaming of me!”

Brienne threw her pizza down and stood up, nearly jostling the contents of the table onto Jaime’s lap. As she stormed inside her tiny apartment, Jaime got to his feet. She turned, lips curls in a snarl and he seized her by the shoulders.

“Brienne—“

“I won’t let anyone humiliate and hurt me like that again. I’ve been through more than enough. No more!”

He shook her. “I’m not going to hurt you!” As she stared at him in disbelief, he said, more calmly, “Brienne, I’ll swear every oath you want me to make. Every fucking oath in every language you want, before a stupid tree or the Seven. I will never hurt you. You have my word.”

Brienne stared at him, confused and still doubtful. But there was no anger now—at least, it had diminished drastically. But she still moved sharply away from him. “Why me, Jaime?”

“Why not you? Yes, you’re ugly. That’s the truth of it. But it is what makes you interesting. It intrigues me. It makes me. . .Brienne,” and this time, he sighed, shoulder slumping as the weight of the last seven years came crashing on him. “Brienne, when I saw you at the park, for the first time since I got sober, I wished—nay, hoped, to paint again. To create. I could see again. Because of you. All it took was a fleeting glimpse of you. Now that you’re here, that I’m here, I’m—I’m overwhelmed. I haven’t felt like this in a long time. Possibly never. Until now.” He looked in her eyes. “Until you.”

He let out a groan, but it wasn’t of desire. Exhaustion. That’s what it was. He brushed past her and collapsed on the loveseat, flinging an arm over his eyes.

The seat under him was dented, so he knew he was on her preferred spot. He smelled lemons too, and he wondered how many hours had she spent playing her blue cello here. He sighed again and let his arm fall to the side. He had said more to Brienne than he had to his brother since getting sober.

Brienne was still standing, staring at him. She was pale now although the freckles were still here. She looked uncertain. Unafraid, but uncertain.

“Brienne,” and this time he was pleading. “I need you. I need you more than I’ve needed anyone. I’m nothing but a has-been artist. I highly doubt if I’ll get back to where I was but right now, all I know is just the sight of you makes me want to try and create. . .something significant. That’s what matters,” he added, his throat dry. He searched her eyes until he was sure she wouldn’t look away. “Not being on top.”

He managed to hold her gaze before she put her eyes away. Jaime would have stood up but then she returned those to him. _Does she know the power of such eyes?_

“Please, Brienne.” He wasn’t accustomed to pleading but with her, he would. He couldn’t create without her. Couldn’t see without her. She had given it back to him without even knowing it, the ability to regard yet again.

“You said I’m ugly.” She whispered.

He hung his head then said, “I apologize—“

“No. Don’t. I’m not. . .I know. I’ve always known.” Her voice was bitter but also resigned. “It’s just that, you’re the first to say it without. . .without hate. Like it’s a good thing.”

“You’re not as ugly as you think you are, though.” This, he was truthful about. _That friend of yours, the redhead, she’ll only be that pretty while young. Your eyes will always be beautiful._

She blushed. “I don’t need lies.”

“I don’t lie.” He snapped.

“Right.”

“I swear it, Brienne.” He liked saying her name, he discovered. A sweet name for a tough lady. It was perfect.

“I still don’t. . .I mean, I understand about needing to create, Jaime.” He liked the sound of his name from her lips too. “I just can’t. . .I can’t understand why me, though. Why not somebody like Sansa? Isn’t she intriguing too?”

Now Jaime had to be blunt. “I suppose. If you have no imagination.”

She frowned.

“She’s beautiful. But beauty on the surface like that, beauty that’s obvious, that’s the way things always are, aren’t they? You see it and that’s it. There’s nothing to mine from it. Nothing more to get. You, on the other hand. . .” He couldn’t stop himself from caressing her figure with his eyes. She did not have a womanly shape but her limbs were long, she was covered in freckles and those nipples. Still hard. He hoped they were long.

“Are so much more than you think. More than you and I can comprehend, to tell you the truth.”

“You  don’t know what you’re seeing.” Brienne sounded helpless. “You’ve imagined me a certain way.” She choked. She was remembering the nude sketch. “I’m not. . you haven’t. . .you don’t know me, Jaime. You have these expectations and I don’t want. . .I can’t disappoint you.”

“How can you think that?”

“You—you haven’t really seen me, Jaime.” Brienne’s chin was wobbling again. “And—And I think before I agree, there must be something you should know first. I can’t. . I don’t want lies, Jaime. I want the truth. I want you to see me as I am and paint me as I really am. You have to see me.”

“I am seeing you.”

She shook her head. “No, you’re not.” She sounded morose.

“Brienne—“ he moved to stand but she stopped him by holding up a shaky hand.

 “Please, Jaime,” she whispered. “Let me. . .I have. . .” Then her eyes glittered and there was a determined set to her jaw. “I have to do this.”

She took a deep breath then reached for the bottom of her tank. Jaime’s eyes got big as she pulled it off, flinging the threadbare garment to the floor before she straightened up and looked at him. He was right. More tits than breasts. Soft, gentle swells rising from her broad chest, splashed heavily with freckles. His breath sped up when he discovered that her aureoles were pink and huge, nearly taking the circumference of her meager tits. Her nipples were plump and hung long.

He swallowed. He wanted one of those nipples in his mouth.

Her waist was straight and boyish, with a flat stomach. If not for the softness of her eyes, even when they were laced with defiance and challenge, or the shy rises of her tits from her chest, Jaime would think her a man. He watched her undo the laces of her drawstring shorts before shimmying them down her wide hips and trunk-like thighs, down to her long legs.

Then she straightened up again, this time fully nude. Holy Seven Hells. Jaime’s eyes were quick to fall on her bush. It was thick with springy curls, a mix of pale and dirty-blond. His cock pushed against his pants, wanting inside. Brienne was hairy, much hairier than all the other women but damn.

He must capture her on canvas. He must.

Brienne was blushing violently, as if red paint had been spilled on her. She was embarrassed and afraid but it was clear she was ready to see this through.

“You have to see,” she said, stubbornly, defiantly. She met his eyes. “Don’t you mock me, Jaime Lannister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please tell me what you think!


	10. In Your Eyes, In Your Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne struggles with trust. Jaime has a unique way of earning it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Past Dubious Content issues up ahead. It's not Jaime. Still, you've been warned.

Brienne had never stood naked before a man. Or anyone. Nor had she given her body a hard look except for the occasional glance in the mirror when getting dressed. A lifetime of abuse had not encouraged her to love anything about herself. Her body was serviceable. Strong. Nothing more.

As she stood before Jaime, she found herself wishing for the first time that there should at least be some parts of her that were traditionally feminine. She was taught to never question what was given to her, taught never to envy what people had that she didn’t. These were lessons she adhered to but she cracked, once in a while. How could she not?

She hated remembering any time with Hyle but he had been the first, and the only one, to touch her. Knowing it was all due to the bet made the memory more painful. She wished to forget, but how? All too well, she remembered those afternoons in his apartment that stunk of beer and sweat. Where she would whimper in protest and confusion as his lips tugged and pulled at her nipples harshly. She was both terrified and aroused as his fingers plunged between the lips of her cunt, telling her that a cock, his cock, would feel so much better. Her protests dissolved into whimpers as his tongue pushed deep inside her mouth.

Once, he suggested, since she was so scared, that they could fuck differently. She could turn around. He would take her another way. Brienne was so innocent in many ways but not that innocent. His suggestion so horrified her that she ignored him at work for a week. Didn’t take his calls and wouldn’t let him inside her apartment. He apologized with a half-dozen red roses and she forgave him. She begged that they take it slow. He was the first to ever kiss her, to like her. She needed time.

Hyle complied for about two weeks before he was ripping her blouse open again. He sucked and bit at her nipples until they hurt. Her cunt also hurt because his fingers had been deeper but there was no blood. She cared for Hyle but the idea of him being the first, even when he liked her, rankled. A couple of days later, she found out about the bet. Brienne was more angry at herself than at Hyle, so she punched him. She vowed never to trust anyone with her heart again.

Standing before Jaime, Brienne scanned his handsome face for a tell-tale twitch of disgust or amusement. She knew what she looked like from head to toe. Her breasts were so small she didn’t really need a bra. She had a straight waist, and broad hips without any hint of curve. She was lean and muscular from the physically-heavy jobs she did. Her fingers were calloused, her toenails cracked. If Jaime wanted to paint her, he had to see her as she was. Brienne refused to be seen any other way. If he wanted her, then he had to see all of her.

Brienne took off her clothes to slap him with the truth. As seconds passed with only silence between them, and the air conditioner cooling her body so her nipples were beginning to harden, she began to have second thoughts. Emotions had her plunging headfirst into the situation she was in now. Now she was mortified at what she had done. And with no word coming from Jaime. . .

She didn’t cover herself when Roose Bolton stared at her chest. She hadn’t been afraid. With Jaime, she was suddenly unsure. Confused. A shaky breath fell from her lips and slowly, she crossed her arms to cover her breasts.

The action snapped Jaime out of the trance. He rose from the couch and went to her, a hand outstretched. Her eyes widened and she clutched her arms to herself in panic. Jaime paused, his face grave. Slowly, he dropped his hand back to his side.

“No.” He told her. “Don’t—don’t do that.”

She shook her head, still embracing herself. “You’re not—you’re not saying anything.”

“Forgive me. I just. . .this was unexpected.”

Brienne blushed and turned away, looking for her clothes. Jaime’s calm voice stopped her.

“Please. Let me see you.”

“Just say it,” she said, turning around but still covering her breasts. Her shoulders were stiff and she was angry at not having thought things through. “Just say that I’m ugly and you made a mistake. I won’t take it against you.”

“That’s not going to happen, Brienne.”

Startled, her mouth fell open. One side of Jaime’s lips quirked.

“Artists love rendering curves. Softness is an ideal, I guess. But angles can be good too.” He put his hands in his pockets and seemed to struggle for words. His eyes lingered on her face before they drifted down to her chest, her stomach. Her legs. “Angles. . .are beautiful. Plains are canvases in themselves.”

“You mean I’m not sexy.” Brienne muttered.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Jaime, you did say I’m all angles.”

“And I said they’re beautiful.”

As he spoke, his eyes fell between her thighs. Brienne froze, realizing what he was staring at. She never trimmed the hairs of her cunt. Never had it waxed or done anything to it except clean it. Even the idea of touching herself down there sexually mortified her. Hyle had only gone down on her once. She protested, trying to remove him from her but he managed to spread her legs and sink his tongue inside. She cried the entire time, even when she felt something inside her give away and shoot up. Hyle told her that’s how it felt to come, and didn’t it feel good? She didn’t know. To this day she still didn’t know how she felt that afternoon, only that she didn’t want it.

Jaime was frowning and she blushed, realizing that in remembering that bastard she had paled and looked angry. Brienne schooled her face in a blank expression but he continued to stare at her, clearly wondering what she was thinking. She started to cover her cunt but Jaime shook his head.

“Don’t. It’s just. . .” He raised his head and stared at her face. “I like bush on a woman. The thicker the better.”

This time, Brienne’s face was the color of a red traffic light. “I-I should trim,” she confessed.

“Probably.” He shrugged. “But if I’m going to paint you, you I’d rather you didn’t.”

“What? Why?”

Jaime cleared his throat. “I’ve actually sent away models who were completely waxed or kept themselves really maintained down there. It’s not natural. And I like natural.” His eyes fell on her breasts then. Or what he could see because her hands were still blocking them. “Let me see you, Brienne. Please.”

He sat back on the loveseat. His green eyes bore that pleading, puppy dog expression that would be ridiculous if not for the charged emotions going through them. Brienne took a deep breath and dropped her arms, standing nude before him, as proud as she could muster to be.

She watched him looking at her. His expression was unreadable as he stared at her throat, a slight frown forming then clearing away as his eyes lowered to her breasts. He looked at them for quite some time, probably memorizing the number of freckles on and around them, their shape, their smallness. He gave her a waist the briefest of glances before resting his eyes on her cunt. Sweat began to pool in the middle of her back. What was he seeing? What was he thinking?

A demand began to tease the tip of her tongue when Jaime suddenly said, “I’m going to need my charcoal and sketchpad.”

“What? What for?” She shrieked. Brienne caught herself but her eyes were wide with fear. This was not what she expected him to say at all. No, no. The idea behind her stripping was to confront him with the truth about herself and have him leave her alone. Angles were beautiful, indeed. Who was he fucking kidding? As Brienne tried to find the words to make him change his mind, Jaime went to the kitchen and took a leather portfolio from where he had sat earlier. She hadn’t noticed him with it.

Her eyes were still big and disbelieving as he retrieved a sketch pad then pushed several pieces of charcoal in his shirt pocket. Noticing her at last, he pointed behind her.

“I noticed you have a bed close by. Perhaps you should go there. You won’t fit on the couch.”

Panicking, she cried out, “Why the fuck should I go to bed?”

Jaime was impatient. “I don’t want you to go to bed. I meant put your ass there. I’m drawing you.”

“Why?”

“I’ve seen you. All the more that I’m convinced I should paint you. Now I have to show you how you are.” Jaime said, looking around. Then he looked past her and she stepped aside. He nodded at the loveseat. “I’ll have that. Get on the bed, Brienne, while I fix this. Don’t worry, I’ll put it all back together.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look,” he said, speaking carefully now, as if addressing a child. Brienne glared at him. His eyes flashed back in challenge. “You have all these ideas about yourself that honestly, they’re painful to hear. You are ugly. That’s the truth. But past that, you have a very skewed view of yourself.”

“What are you talking about?” She demanded. “Jaime, you had no idea of my existence until days ago. You can’t make all these presumptions and telling me that I’m wrong about myself.”

“To an extent, you’re right.” Jaime put the pad on the table and started pulling at the loveseat. “Seven Hells, this is heavy. But people have been horrible to you. You think so poorly of yourself because of what they did. Let’s hope that changes beginning today, wench.”

Brienne started. “Wench?”

“Sorry. That’s what I’ve been calling you in my head.” Jaime grunted and dragged the loveseat away from its spot. Brienne could only watch as the furniture squeaked and scraped across the floor, Jaime maneuvering it until it was facing her bed. Seeing her still standing on her spot, he asked again, “Brienne, please. On the bed. Believe me, you won’t regret this. I promise.”

Brienne stared at him and Jaime looked desperate. “Please, Brienne. I feel like I have to show you. Now.”

She could still throw him out. How could he want to paint her still? And why did he think that just by painting her he could convince her to see herself differently? How arrogant, really, to be so sure that he could undo everything. Brienne wanted to tell him to stop. He was mocking her, she was sure of it.

But when Jaime was looking at her with such need, rearranging her furniture and promising her that she was wrong about herself all along, she longed. . .wanted to believe.

And if she could be brave about stripping before him, she could do this too. Let him draw her. Fine.

So she sat at the foot of the bed while Jaime plunked down on the loveseat. He took his pad and put it on his lap. When he looked up, he saw Brienne staring at him expectantly.

“Oh. Right. Brienne, I need you to lay down.” Then he put the pad away and went to her. Brienne tensed, realizing what kind of vulnerable position she was in. Seeing her reaction, he held up his hands.

“I’ll need to touch you every now and then, Brienne. With your permission, of course.”

“Why?”

“Because touching you might help you get into a preferred position faster.”

Brienne frowned, biting her lip as she turned his words over in her head. Did he just—

Jaime caught himself too and flushed. As it dawned on him how his words could be construed, he said, “I meant—I only meant—“

Brienne sighed impatiently. “I know. You didn’t mean how it sounded.” She was annoyed but a part of her kind of wished that he meant more than that, or at least, the words were said in another context. But that’s ridiculous, she thought. She had long learned never to want or dream of things that will never be hers. Who would want her?

How could anyone love her as she was? Looking as she did?

With awkward gestures, Jaime directed her to lay on her side. He stacked pillows and indicated she rest her head there. He showed her how to position her arms. When she couldn’t get them right, he looked at her for permission first before she nodded her assent and offered her wrists.

Jaime’s hands were calloused. The tips of his fingers and nails bore the dark smudges of charcoal. He put her left arm a little higher on her head, flattened it gently. The right one he put a little below her face, and he had her angle her head a little higher so her hand won’t block it.

She watched as his hands fell on her hips, turning them slightly so they were not completely flat on the mattress. As Jaime adjusted and moved her body to a position only he could envision, Brienne struggled to relax. She knew the difference between sexual and impersonal touches. It was Hyle cupping her breasts, sliding his hands between her thighs and fucking her with his fingers. Yet, those intimate touches had not stirred her as much as Jaime’s light, casual touches were doing. She was tensed yet curious, worried about getting disappointed yet also worried he’ll take it further and she won’t feel as horrible as she should. She swallowed, for the first time in her life praying for disappointment. It was known. It was familiar. Disappointment was a comfort.

Seeing the veins of her neck standing out, Jaime, whose hands were on her legs, stopped and said, chidingly, “Relax, Brienne. I won’t hurt you.”

“Maybe,” she stuttered, “Maybe I shouldn’t . .I should get. . .clothes.”

He stepped back, his eyes raking her again. It was dark out and there was only little light in the room. The darkness in his eyes was just that, due to a lack of light. Not anything else.

“If you want,” he told her after a moment. “But you’re perfect as you are.”

She looked away.

“Brienne,” and then he was kneeling before her. His hand on her cheek was all the touch it took for her to summon enough courage to look back at him. A lock of golden blond hair fell across his forehead. He looked like an angel. Maybe he looked like a god. Brienne was sure no human being could be this good-looking. For all she knew, this was all a wild, crazy dream.

_Disappointment was a comfort._

“I need you to trust me.”

She bit her lip. Hyle used to say that. _Trust me._ Then as soon as she put her guard down, his hands were on her breasts again, his mouth insistent tugs on her nipples. As his tongue choked her, his fingers plundered her cunt, seeking something only he knew about.

“I think you do but you’re still afraid. You wouldn’t have stripped before a stranger if you didn’t trust him in some way. I understand being afraid. We can stop this anytime you want. It doesn’t have to be like this.” He was caressing her cheek now, as if it was smooth and not freckled and flushed embarrassingly. As he touched her cheek, his other hand smoothed her hair away from her forehead. “Shall I get your clothes?”

He was leaning over her. She could smell his cologne, a clean, gently-spiced scent mixed with his musk. The rough fabric of his t-shirt was tickling her nipple. He continued to make soothing, soft noises, looking at her the whole time.

“N-No.” Her breath stilled as he stopped touching her. “I—I want to do this. I’m scared but I have to do this.”

“It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“Yes, it is. You have to see me. You’ll see how wrong your fantasies are.”

“They certainly are.” Jaime said and this time, he stared deliberately at her breasts. Brienne’s hands fisted as she restrained herself from covering them, but there was no stopping the wave of pink spreading through her. “My fantasies are a disservice to you.”

Her heart thudded heavily in her chest. Jaime’s eyes fell there, then on the wildly beating pulse in her throat. Once again, he brushed his knuckles brushed her cheek. “Please trust me, Brienne.”

No, this man was nothing like Hyle. Or any other man. He looked at her but it wasn’t with want. He did see her, ugly face and mannish body.

She took a deep breath and her lips formed a silent, wordless prayer. “I trust you,” she whispered.

Jaime continued caressing her cheek. The light touch was relaxing, almost drugging. That’s how good it was. As Brienne’s eyes began to close, she felt him lean close. In the next instant, his warm, moist lips were on hers. Her breath locked in her throat as Jaime kissed her, a tentative brush of his lips on her mouth. Then he was gone, sitting back on his heels. She opened her eyes and saw him looking at her anxiously.

“Y-You kissed me.”

“How else to reward trust but with a kiss?”

She blushed and managed to say, “I’ve never heard that before.”

“You looked so scared. You still do, but not as much.” Jaime confessed. “If I hugged you, I think you’d punch me. If I pay you a compliment, you’ll say I’m lying. By kissing you, we both get what we want. Also, it would spare my having to explain to people why I’m injured again. I also thought a kiss would be a good ice-breaker, you know?”

Her eyes narrowed. “And how do you know what I want?”

“To see this through. And I want you to trust me.” He looked at her lips again. “I’ll do it again, if you’d let me.”

She blushed and dropped her eyes. “Only if you want to.”

“No, Brienne. Only if _you_ want to.”

She raised her eyes at him, unaware of how she looked limned in the light of an indigo evening and the golden glow from a lamp. “Jaime, I trust you.”

Relief crossed his face and then his lips were on her again. This time she kissed him back, remembering to tilt her head to the side to give him better access and so she could also kiss him better. Her heart was racing again, going a hundred miles an hour. She wondered if he could feel it under his arm, which was resting between her breasts.

No, this was nothing like Hyle’s kisses. Hyle did not kiss her. He choked her. Jaime. . .it was like a dance. Him gently leading and patiently waiting her to follow. Brushing his lips on hers as to not scare her away. Introducing the warmth of his breath, the moist slide of his lips, his warm tongue. He gave her just the tip and it was enough to encourage her to reciprocate.

Then she was putting her palm flat on his chest. Jaime sighed, understanding. He rested his forehead against her neck before leaning away. They looked at each other once more before he turned away to sit on the loveseat. Brienne watched him take his sketchpad and put it on his lap.

They didn’t speak for the nearly two hours, except for when Jaime assured her she could stretch her legs a bit or rub the numbing spot under her ass. But Brienne would only allow herself to stretch, not wanting to mess the position she was in. She watched him gaze at her intently, then at the version of her he was rendering on the paper. On and on this went. His eyes were sharp, deep emeralds, looking at her and seeing more. The hush and hiss of charcoal skidding across the paper was the only sound in their circle of quiet and trust.

Brienne put her clothes back on, unaware that Jaime watched her the entire time. He only turned away to drag the loveseat back to its original spot. Back in her tank top and shorts, she faced him. Jaime held out three sheets of paper to her.

“The two are the sketches I made of you this morning. I’m leaving the latest with you.” He said as she took them. Brienne’s cheeks were hot. They were all nudes. The pose he had her do was that of a woman luxuriating after an afternoon of lovemaking. That’s what she looked like, anyway. Nothing could be further from the truth but this was what she looked like. Brienne looked up and saw Jaime watching her.

“I guess artists see the world a certain way but it’s always part of a larger truth. You would know.” He told her. “I don’t lie, Brienne. Never to you. I swear it.”

He said it simply, as if stating something that had always been true between them. Brienne didn’t know what to say. She had trusted a man she knew little about. Stripped before him, let him touch her, kissed him, let him see her. She could only hold the sketches to her chest.

There was nothing else to say. Except for this: “I trust you, Jaime.”

He looked startled, as if she had just revealed something shocking. She watched him gather himself then he was suddenly standing before her. His green eyes looked into hers before his hand was wrapping around her nape. This time, his mouth mashed against hers. There was no sweet, gentle coaxing. His tongue swooped inside and she opened her mouth wide. Her hand fisted on his shirt as he sucked her tongue, as if to take a taste of her with him.

Before, she had stopped him. Now she wondered what the hell would possess her to stop a kiss like this. But Jaime had the answer. Brienne hoped her disappointment was not too obvious as his kisses suddenly stilled and then he was removing himself away from her. Her mouth felt bruised and she blinked rapidly at him, trying to understand what just happened. Jaime looked confused too; his shaking hand rising to smooth his hair told her.

When he looked at her again, his eyes were searing, like that of ancient wildfyre.

“What’s your schedule like?”

“Huh?”

“Your work. If you’ll be collaborating with me, we’ll have to work around that.” He glanced at her cello. “Also your practice time.”

Brienne had to scramble in her head for her schedule. She gave it to him and Jaime looked to memorize it.

“Come to my place tomorrow after your work. If you’re interested to see our collaboration through. I hope so, anyway.” Jaime looked at the papers she still held and he grinned. “I hope I didn’t disappoint today, Brienne. I certainly found some. . .significant satisfaction with us.” Then he smiled as she blushed furiously.

He got his portfolio case and gestured at the leftover pizza slices. “Those will make for a great breakfast tomorrow.”

“J-Jaime, wait.” Brienne called out to him as he opened the door. “Tomorrow’s Thursday. I-I can’t stay long. I have work that night.” She had almost forgotten about Roose Bolton.

“What kind of work?”

“This dinner party I’ll be performing in. Some rich guy and his investors. I’m sorry. But I have to practice.”

“Don’t be. How’s your Friday?”

She nodded. “It works.”

“Good. Brienne, could you come here, please?”

So she did, thinking he had something else to give her. Or something to say.

Instead, he tugged her by the waistband of her shorts before planting his mouth on hers. Jaime Lannister’s marauding mouth roamed hungrily across and inside hers and she let him. _Why is this happening?_

Before she could come to some understanding why he had kissed her, _again,_ and why she let him kiss her, _again_ , he pulled away and left. The blasted man did not even look back! Brienne slammed the door, cursing under her breath.

When Sansa finally got home thirty minutes later, she noted the fiery flush on Brienne’s cheeks and thought she was fevered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I know it doesn't make sense for them to be kissing, okay? But the July premiere means an overlong J/B drought. I need them kissing, okay?
> 
> Indulge me.:-)


	11. The Only Response

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a maiden is in danger, a lion responds in only one way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take note of the Attempted Rape tag.

The next morning, Brienne winced at Sansa squeezing maple syrup over the pizza. Seeing the look of disgust on her face, Sansa grinned and took a big bite. “Don’t judge until you’ve tried it, Brienne. The savory flavor goes really well with the sweet syrup.”

Brienne rubbed her eyes and took a sip of her instant coffee. “I’ll take your word for it.”

It had been a long, uneasy night. Sansa had gone for coffee with Grenn and what was supposed to be only an hour lasted at least a few hours. She couldn’t stop talking about their co-worker as she flung her shoes under the table, and continued even as she took a piss in the bathroom. Brienne was grateful for the distraction. Her head was still swimming and it seemed she still wasn’t in her body yet after that surreal, impromptu portrait session with Jaime. And the kiss. Why had he kissed her?

More importantly, why did she let him? Why did she kiss him back?

Scratch that. The really important question was why she wasn’t as bothered as she should be? She had been naked and he’d taken advantage. But nothing about those hours with him, nothing about the kiss felt like a violation. He was too careful, even scared. Brienne’s thoughts flew between when he would be kissing again and what she would do should he attempt to kiss her again.

When Sansa was finally asleep, Brienne took the sketches from under the pillow and went to the bathroom. The lighting here was harsh, too white and too bright. She sat on the covered toilet as she leafed through the three sketches Jaime left with her.

The first two were of her scowling. Her hair looked like she had simply run her fingers through it and she looked mad enough to kill. Though it was only charcoal, the details he had put there were remarkable. Brienne stood in front of the mirror and held the drawing in front of it. Gods, he had captured the precise placement of her freckles. They were not just random dots he hazed through. Jaime truly was observant.

She took a deep breath before looking at her nude drawing next. Here, even in the charcoal and the soft, limited light of the room, he had found something clear and sensual. Parts of her seemed embraced by shadows, if she understood this was what the shadings meant. Nevertheless, there was a lambent quality about her. The expression on her face was thoughtful, soft. Jaime didn’t make her look beautiful. This was still her—he didn’t even cheat with her breasts although she questioned if her nipples were really that puffy. But there was something arresting in the way he drew her. For once in her life, she felt no embarrassment at seeing how meager her curves were. Even in her reclined, relaxed pose, her body radiated with a quiet, careful power. He had been telling the truth, she was angles and plains, and there was beauty there. Maybe he did see her in a way she couldn’t, and it was something she should consider too. After all, she had always seen herself the way others judged her, cruelly, hatefully.

Brienne stepped over Sansa’s sleeping figure on the pull-out. Quietly, she tucked the sketches under the pillow and got in bed. The night was warm and it was dark. Still, she drew a blanket over her body. Once under it, she took another deep breath then put her hand under her shirt.

She never touched herself. Her body did not incite desire but called to be conquered, brutally, as evidenced by that cruel bet by Hyle and her former co-workers. When she was younger she wished her breasts were a little bigger—they didn’t have to be like those gravity-defying melons in magazine centerfolds—just curves, enough curves to show she was a woman. But she discovered that when playing the cello, small breasts such as hers were an advantage. The instrument could rest easily on her chest. Nothing got in the way.

Still. But still. Closing her eyes and hating the heat spreading across her face, her palm skimmed over and on the slight mounds.

She felt the bed of her ribs, the hard span of her chest. Her breasts barely rose—they were really only the slightest of swells, as if they were shaped as an afterthought. Her teeth clamped hard on her bottom lip as her fingers circled her aureoles before pinching her nipple gently. Jaime drew her with hard nipples and yes, even now, they were still hard. She swallowed the whimpers forming at her throat as she plucked at the hardened tip, stunned at the pleasure her fingers were bringing to the soft tissue. Brienne touched and caressed her breasts, examining and discovering their shape until she fell asleep.

It was no wonder her breasts were aching now. Brienne finished her coffee, only nodding and making murmured noises as Sansa prattled on about how cute and nice Grenn was. Jaime was expecting her tomorrow, should she wish to collaborate with him. It was weird, how he made it should like they were partners with an equal share. What possessed her to strip before a stranger she’ll never know. But after weeks of being verbally abused and sexually harassed, she needed to reclaim some of the power she had lost. The problem was, she not only thought it through but it backfired. She wanted Jaime to see her and know how wrong she was. Instead he not only showed another picture of her, literally, but had issued a challenge. The sketches were the equivalent of a gauntlet thrown to the ground, awaiting her response.

Brienne Tarth didn’t walk away from a challenge. She would retreat but no, she didn’t walk away.

She was removing olives from her pizza when Sansa suddenly waved in front of her. Puzzled, she stopped what she was doing. “What is it?”

“My, you’ve been distracted since last night.” Sansa remarked. “You might be coming down with something?” There was a hopeful lilt in her voice.

Brienne had to smile. “Sansa, I’m not going to cancel on Roose Bolton. I’m not sick.”

Sansa peered at her critically. “Yeah, you’re not,” she said slowly. “But there’s something about you. It’s like. . .I don’t know. It’s like you’re lit or something but I know you won’t touch the stuff.”

“Of course not!”

“Just kidding.”

Brienne affected a nonchalant shrug. “Maybe I’m like this because I had some really hot sex last night.” Her cheeks pinked and she laughed, looking at Sansa. But the redhead didn’t laugh or even grin. Instead, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that.”

“What?”

Sansa’s eyes twinkled. “Brienne, I smelled a man’s cologne here when I got home. Here. And on you.”

A denial was ready to tumble from Brienne’s lips but the red flush blooming from her cheeks beat her. Sansa’s eyes widened. “Oh, fuck. You did fuck someone!”

“No!”

“Brienne, that’s why you’re acting so strange! Don’t lie. I smelled him here. By the couch. Everywhere. And on you. Oh, gods!” Her hands flew to her mouth. “You finally lost your V-card!”

Panicking, Brienne shook her head. “No, no, no. You got it absolutely wrong!”

“By the smell of him, he’s got good, expensive taste. That’s not the kind of scent you get from a drugstore,” Sansa teased. “I’m so proud of you!”

“Sansa, it was Jaime Lannister!”

Sansa’s blue eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “Seven fuck me hard. You lost your V-card to Jaime Lannister? He’s weird but hot. That was fast.”

The flush spread to Brienne’s chest and her sore nipples tightened even more. “Will you listen? We didn’t fuck!”

“Did you at least sit on his face?”

Sansa was teasing her again but it was enough for an image of her giant thighs sandwiching Jaime’s face to form in her head. As if that wasn’t enough, she had no trouble imagining his tongue spreading her cunt open and tasting her.

“No! Nothing happened!”

“You smell like the guy and nothing happened?”

“Don’t be dumb, Sansa. We talked. That’s all.” Brienne’s eyes flashed. “That’s all.”

“You know, stupid lines aside, you should consider having him pop your cherry.” Sansa said thoughtfully. “You should call him, ask him out for coffee. Cancel tonight with Roose. Brienne,” she reached for her hand. “I’m begging you. I do not have a good feeling about tonight.”

“Nothing bad will happen,” Brienne insisted.

“I can ask Grenn—“

“I’m not a fucking baby.”

“No. You can take of yourself. But you can be as careful as you want and it’s not enough against creeps like Roose. At least if you have someone with you or someone’s coming by to get you, he’ll probably avoid doing something.” Sansa’s eyes implored her again. “Let me call Grenn.”

“No.”

With the issue ending at an impasse, the rest of the day was tensed between the best friends. Sansa washed their cups and got rid of the pizza box while Brienne wiped the table clean. Sansa left for her morning shift at Mop Busters, glancing at Brienne worriedly. Brienne hated arguing with her but she wished people would stop babying her. She went through sheets of music, finally finding a few pieces she had mastered to play well.

Roose told her to come after the dinner hour. He wanted her to play for his guests for two hours. Two hours to get what she earned in a month working three jobs. Brienne couldn’t pass it up.

After practicing for an hour, Brienne got dressed for her shift at Ruff N’ Roll. It was a busy day. Three of the dogs needed trimming aside from a bath. Hers and Pod’s hands were full and they had to put up a sign that indicated they weren’t taking any walk-ins today.

When her shift was over, she dashed to the subway, sliding past the doors of the train right before they closed. She still had three hours before showing up at the Boltons but she wanted to practice one more time before she must absolutely get ready.

For tonight, her repertoire _was Blue Rose of Winter, Dornish Dance_ and _Two Swords_. The first two were light, gentle compositions and she was including Two Swords out of selfish reasons. She wasn’t going to change her mind about her audition piece but she agreed with Sansa and Olenna about performing and getting feedback. The last piece was going to be her calling card, if she played it well.

After practicing, Brienne hit the shower. She vigorously rubbed every trace of dog fur and dog smell of her. She didn’t like floral scents but for once, helped herself to Sansa’s freesia-scented shampoo. Brienne put her tank top back on (and yeah, it still smelled strongly of Jaime’s cologne) and the shorts. Then she took the cello again and resumed practicing.

She was stroking the bow across the strings in accordance to the rapid pace as demanded by the composition when she heard the door opening. Halting her play abruptly, she turned around to see Sansa.

They stared at each other wordlessly. Sansa stared at her sneakers while Brienne continued to rest the bow on the cello.

Very few people cared about her. Brienne would be grateful for this always. But sometimes, people cared too much. As if they didn’t trust her to look after herself or handle anything on her own, really. The Starks, especially, tend to treat her as if she was porcelain. Sansa staying with her at the moment meant Catelyn and Ned had backed off a bit. Brienne and Sansa were best friends but there were times that the relationship seemed to choke her. Sansa didn’t control her but was always reminding her to be careful. After what happened with Roose, the redhead had made the leap to paranoia.

But Brienne understood. If they changed places, she would be maddeningly protective too.

“Sansa, I—“

“Brienne, just let me—“

They flushed then smiled at each other. Brienne put away the cello and opened her arms as Sansa went to her. They hugged, Sansa kissing her on the cheek.

“I worry too much. I just love you, is all,” Sansa murmured.

Brienne nodded. “I know.”

Sansa sniffed her. “Did you use my shampoo?”

“Sorry.” Brienne blushed and pulled away.

“No, don’t be. It smells nice.” Sansa assured her.

She continued to watch as Brienne reached for the cello. It was clear that she still disapproved but there was no stopping Brienne. She sighed and kissed her on the forehead before saying she had to get ready for the dinner with her parents.

Brienne played on, seeing at the periphery of her vision Sansa wrapped in a towel before plunking the damp, heavy cloth on her pull-out bed. She pulled on a teeny pair of black panties up her round hips, and on her breasts, a matching black bra. Brienne didn’t know anything about sexy lingerie—she wore only basic, practical panties—found herself envious of her best friend’s curves, the confident way she walked around the studio looking for a dress to wear. She looked away, blushing heavily, before Sansa caught her.

Sansa did got to her a minute later, requesting for help with the zipper. As Brienne pulled up the tab, Sansa swept her long braid aside. Done, she turned and looked at Brienne.

Sensing another plea, Brienne sighed. “Sansa, don’t.”

“Just promise me to be careful.”

“I promise.”

“Text me when you get there and when you’re about to leave, alright?”

“Sansa—“

“Brienne.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

Sansa left. Brienne looked at the closed door and sighed.

She hoped that Roose hitting on her would be for that one time only, but she wasn’t relaxing her guard.

She went for another round before it was time to get ready. Since she was performing, she had to dress a certain way. Ideally, a dress would suit—she could grip the cello better with the bare skin of her legs, rather than with pants. Still, she went with pants, an old black pair with some hems loosened already. She hoped nobody looked too close. She picked a sleeveless, black turtleneck top. The lack of sleeves gave her arms mobility and the high neckline at least protected her modesty. Black was too hot for the season but she didn’t like dressing in much color. Her cello was also blue so she really shouldn’t clash with it, lest she distract people watching.

Brienne ran some numbers in her head before packing up her cello. Roose Bolton lived downtown. With the instrument, she would be knocking and hitting people in the subway. She had money for cab fare but she didn’t want to take the cab going there and coming home. It would be too much. So she decided to take the cab—it was faster and her hair wouldn’t be a wreck upon arriving. Going home, she’ll have to take the subway. The cab fare would hit her quite hard but at least it was only for one trip.

She was reverent in packing her cello in the case. This had been Selwyn’s last gift to her, and all she had left of him and the few good memories she had of Tarth. There were photo albums and some mementos but she had to get rid of nearly everything she grew up with to make the move to King City possible. She could have stayed in Tarth. It was the easier choice. But what was left for her there? Tarth, despite brimming with life and its vivid waters home to a rich diversity of marine life, was a death sentence for someone with her aspirations.

As Brienne was locking up, she heard someone approaching her. Olenna Tyrell was leaning heavily on a young brunette. This was Irri, her assistant.

“Dear,” Olenna called out to her. “You look lovely.”

Brienne blushed. “Thank you.”

Taking note of her cello, she asked, “Performing?”

“Kind of.” Brienne decided not to tell her about Roose Bolton. Bad enough that Sansa knew and didn’t approve. “Wish me luck.”

Olenna smiled. “Break a leg, then.”

It didn’t take long for Brienne to hail a cab. She told the driver to go to Flayed Man Avenue, once a thriving meat packing district that was now an exclusive address for the discerning but entrepreneurial rich. It was a neighborhood of both the old and new rich.

It was a fifteen-minute drive. Brienne looked at her watch and saw she was five minutes early. She lugged her cello case behind her as she climbed up the steps. There were limos and vintage cars parked in the street. This should be assuring but not really. It reminded her more of her audience, and they could either make or destroy her.

Squaring her shoulders, she pressed the buzzer.

_Please, I hope Roose Bolton doesn’t come on to me again._

A maid let her in after only a few seconds but it was enough for sweat to gleam from Brienne’s forehead and neck, for her hands to get clammy. As she gripped the handlebar of the case, she struggled to focus on the maid’s instructions.

“Uh, I’m sorry?” She asked, flushing.

The maid made a harrumphing sound. “Mr. Bolton wishes for you to wait in the library, where the rest of the party will be gathering shortly. I believe he would like a few words with you before you perform.”

Oh, gods. Brienne thought, feeling herself about to get sick. Instead, she made a sound of acquiescence and followed her to the room.

The maid reached in her pocket. “This your check.” She pressed the envelope in Brienne’s hand then left.

Brienne stared after then opened the envelope. The amount there was twice what Roose had promised. Seven Hells, she wouldn’t have to worry about taking another job for a while! But her euphoria only lasted for a moment. It seemed this place did not allow for any happy emotions, judging by how dark the room was. Then there was also what Roose did to her the last time she was in his house.

The library was decorated with burgundy and dark furniture. No cabinets holding ancient, dangerous weapons but there was still a forbidding quality. An elegant sofa and some chairs had been arranged around the room. Brienne assumed that the lone chair in the center was where she would be performing from. So she went there, installing her cello case behind a pillar. She got on her knees to take out the instrument.

She was getting to her feet when the door opened. Instantly, all the warmth in the room fled as Roose Bolton let himself in. Pale and once again in black, his eyes scanned her quickly before he gave a brief nod. Brienne straightened up, holding the cello to her side as he went to her.

Roose Bolton made no attempt to be discreet in staring at her breasts. The black fabric of her top hid them but once again, she wasn’t wearing a bra. Brienne refused to wear a bra because it wasn’t her problem that the creep wouldn’t stop leering at her, as if he had the right.

“Miss Tarth.” He greeted her, holding out a hand. She had no choice but to shake his hand. Fuck, but it was cold. Like shaking hands with the Stranger. Brienne couldn’t control the shiver that climbed up her spine. To her annoyance, Roose didn’t let go of her hand. He clasped it between both of his.

“I’m so glad you made yourself available tonight. I have been telling my guests about you.” He said.

Brienne tensed, realizing what exactly he had been saying to them. _Just do what he’s paying you for well and get out of here when you’re done._

Scrambling for her manners, she stammered, “Mr. Bolton, your payment—it’s really generous.”

His smile did not reach his eyes. “But you deserve every penny of it, Miss Tarh. Tardiness aside, you are quite talented. Now, what will you be playing for us tonight?”

Brienne wondered how to get her hand back without being rude and compromising her future finances.

She mumbled them. It was a wrong move because Roose took the opportunity to move closer, to lean really close. Brienne stiffened and spoke more clearly, loudly. Unfortunately, it didn’t make him jump back. He looked amused.

“Excellent. _Dornish Dance_ , personally, is too happy but at least you’ll be playing _Two Swords_.” Finally, he let go of her hand. Brienne was about to breathe a sigh of relief when he suddenly put a hand on her shoulder. She had to fight to not grimace. His fingers felt like icy slugs on her skin.

“You’re tensed, Miss Tarth.”

Brienne looked at him in the eye. “Nothing but nerves, sir.”

“Would a drink help you calm down? I have a good collection of the finest vintages.” _Why was he stroking her arm?_

She shook her head. “No, that—that won’t be necessary. And I don’t drink.”

Roose’s eyes glinted and Brienne felt like a cornered animal. To her further discomfort, he traced the line of her inner arm with the tip of his finger, ending with his thumb circling her palm. As she jumped in surprise, he leaned close again. She turned her head away.

“Twenty-year-old scotch is a delight to the tongue and the senses, Miss Tarth.”

“Maybe,” a familiar, annoyed voice rang out. For the second time in a minute, Brienne jumped and whipped her head towards the door. Her eyes widened.

“Brienne is quite obstinate once she’s made her decision, Roose,” Jaime Lannister said. He looked more handsome and sharper in his black suit and crisp white shirt. The dark color of his clothes emphasized the golden color of his hair and the brilliance of his green eyes. They glowed like emeralds, polished and sharp. He didn’t look too pleased at the scene before him.

“And if the lady says she doesn’t want to drink,” he continued, “a true gentleman wouldn’t persuade her to do something she clearly doesn’t want, now, would he?”

 

Jaime wasn’t into classical music although a childhood sentenced to watch opera and orchestra performances schooled him enough to know the bad from the good. He appreciated great music, though, and sometimes could be persuaded to see the King City Philharmonic.

When Roose announced dinner that he had booked a solo cello performance for when they adjourned to the library, Jaime’s thoughts immediately went to Brienne Tarth. She was the only one he personally knew who played the cello although he couldn’t imagine any association between her and Roose. He didn’t like the man for his sneaky, unethical business practices. Jaime didn’t have an economics or management degree but he knew business. He knew that businesses, in an effort to save money, spend only at a minimum and earn a windfall, sometimes engaged in questionable practices. It was well-known that Roose once used child labor, and his companies were known for screwing their employees over. But because he owned practically all the steel and his connections in both politics and business, he was untouchable. Not as untouchable as Tywin Lannister.

Not yet, anyway.

Jaime and Tyrion joined Tywin and other potential investors at the dinner. Margaery skipped it because she couldn’t stand the sight of Roose Bolton. The brothers let her be—Tyrion didn’t want Margaery at the dinner either.

Like every elegant, business dinner, the conversation was bland and the company worse. No one blinked an eye at Jaime’s presence there, although some of the wives sent him a suggestive smile. The Jaime of old would have taken up one of the offers, meeting the wife in some room for a quick, hot fuck. Fucking a married woman was ideal—there were no commitments and it was just sex. Why would he say no?

But no woman had stirred any response or curiosity in him for a long time. Not until that day at Falcon Park. Not until last night, where Jaime experienced the longest, most frustrating arousal in his life. How he’d managed to keep his hands on the charcoal and paper after touching Brienne was nothing short of a miracle. He was shocked when she started stripping. By the time she stood nude, unsure but determined before him, Jaime’s cock was hurting so bad he thought he was going to die. His need for her, his respect for her as his muse, were the only things that prevented him from taking things further than those kisses. He was beginning to crack right before he left and so allowed himself to partake of that thick-lipped, big mouth of hers. He expected her to hit him but she hadn’t. Perhaps, like him, she was also confused.

When Roose mentioned the name Brienne Tarth, Jaime snapped out of his reverie and sat up. What could Brienne be doing with this guy? He wondered. Roose, smug and smirking, went on to unknowingly answer his question.

“As you all know, my son Ramsay has been taking cello lessons from her. Brienne is the daughter of Selwyn Tarth, from Tarth. Ramsay shows much promise and tonight, I invite you to watch and listen to Selwyn’s remarkable daughter play. It is an experience not to be missed.”

So she was tutoring that kid. Jaime didn’t know he had a son—he wasn’t too keen about family trees. It was a relief that Brienne was only connected to Roose for business reasons.

Or was it?

They had been standing too close together when Jaime entered the library, thinking to avoid any more of the boring chitchat and the grabby hands of a wife. Roose was touching Brienne’s arm in a familiar way that nearly had Jaime snarling. Brienne was blushing and scowling—although she had scowled more when speaking to Jaime in her apartment before. 

The rest of the guests trooped in so Jaime was not able to speak with Brienne. He got a seat at the back. It was a huge mistake.

Brienne was not a remarkable cellist. She was breathtaking. The girl who stood naked before him last night, outlining to him all the reasons why she was wrong for him, had been scared but defiant, determined, stubborn. Jaime was both aroused and impressed.

The woman who had the cello cradled between her long legs and coaxing the smoothest, silkiest notes from it, was poetry in action. She moved with the music, swaying slightly with the cello and to the rhythm. There was an intensity,  a passion to her playing that compounded her mastery of the composition. She didn’t have talent. She was Talent. As she played, Jaime’s heart clenched painfully at how someone who could play so beautifully had been sidelined by circumstances beyond her control. He remembered her in the soiled, gods-awful pink uniform, in the black-and-navy uniform of the leaning service. Four years she had toiled just to get back on the road towards achieving her dream.

And what had he done? After proving himself to critics, he fucked himself by hitting the bottle too hard.

Something stung his eyes. _Seven Bloody Hells_. The wench’s playing had moved him to fucking tears! She was that good. 

As everyone applauded, Jaime coughed and cleared his throat. Since he was the only one making the sound, Brienne’s eyes went to him. He grinned and started to clap too. She blushed and lowered her head, taking those beautiful blues away but giving him the visual treat of her pale, freckled neck curving down, like a shy swan’s. Intriguing. One minute, she was the surest things in the room. Then the next, she couldn’t seem to wait for the floors to open up and swallow her.

When Brienne’s performance ended, Jaime stood up but the other guests were faster. He could only watch in both resignation and disappointment as they approached her, eager to sing her praises or hire her for their children. These rich people, he thought, thinking that money bought talent. He was a tall guy, head and shoulders taller than everyone so he managed to catch Brienne’s eye.

A look passed between them, one that was intimate and familiar, despite knowing each other for only a short time. Jaime couldn’t stop smirking at the pink spots on her cheeks. To his pleasure, she smiled back, lips pulling back to reveal a row of big, horsey teeth. Jaime thought it was the sweetest thing. "Tomorrow," he mouthed at her. She nodded softly then turned as Roose put a hand on her shoulder, once again leaning too close. Jaime frowned and thought about going to her anyway but Tyrion tugged at his hand. Tyrion had been wanting to leave since they set foot in the Bolton residence. 

He let his brother and Tywin say their goodbyes to Roose before following them. It was rude to leave without thanking the host but Jaime would never have to deal with him. That was for Tyrion and Tywin to worry about.

The Lannisters packed themselves in the limousine and it drove off. Tywin sat facing his sons, who were sitting next to each other. His eyes were emerald shards that missed nothing.

“Well?” He prompted them.

Tyrion shook his head. “My mind hasn’t changed.”

“The partnership between Lannister and Bolton would bring unprecedented investments.”

“In the beginning. Then Bolton will buy you out. He does this, Father.” Tyrion sounded frustrated. “Again, I advice—“

“That is right,” Tywin drawled. “You advice.”

They stared at each other before Tyrion spoke up. “It seems I’ve been reminded of my place. I shall stick to my lane, then.”

“And you?” Tywin demanded to Jaime.

He spread his palms. “You are willing to sully the name with a man who has committed atrocious and inhuman labor practices. We’ve tried to persuade you from yet you remain on your desired course. What else can we do?”

Tywin frowned. “Your sarcasm is not becoming of Lannister.”

“No, but it speaks the truth.” Jaime answered. He rested his hand on his left wrist then frowned.

“What now?” Tywin said.

Jaime stared at the vacant spot on his wrist. “It appears my watch has fallen. I must have failed to securely clasp it.”

Tyrion pressed a button that connected them to the driver. “Ilyn, please take us back to the Bolton house.”

“Right away, sir.”

Jaime sighed as the limo turned around the corner, already circling back. “I like that watch.”

“Want to bet that Roose has pocketed it?” Tyrion said dryly.

The limousine pulled up in front of townhouse fifteen minutes later. Jaime jogged up the stairs and rang the doorbell. A maid let him in and he told her about losing his watch, in either the library or the dining room.

“I can check in the dining room, Mr. Lannister, although we’re done cleaning there,” she offered. “Would you mind checking the library?”

“Not at all.”

So the maid led him there then went off to the other direction, towards the dining room. The chairs that had been arranged there were gone. As Jaime got on his hands and knees and crawled across the carpet, looking under the furniture, a muffled, broken sob reached his ears. He thought nothing of it until he heard it again.

They were barely discernible sounds but he could hear them. Frowning, he stood up and put his ear to the wall. There was nothing. Only quiet this time.

Suddenly, a choked voice cried out, “No. Stop. Stop.”

Jaime’s hackles rose. He knew that voice.

He ran out of the library and raced toward the other room, where the voice came from. As he tore across the hallway, the maid appeared at the end of it, holding up a familiar watch. “Mr. Lannister, your watch—“

Jaime ignored her and threw his shoulder against the door. It slammed open, the sound startling the pair behind it. The pair on the floor.

It didn’t take much to know what was happening—or what had happened. Brienne’s arms, strangely feeble as they tried to push Roose Bolton away from her breasts, where his mouth was clamped tightly around a nipple. Her legs were bare, and between them was Roose’s white hand. Jaime was sickened.

When Brienne turned her head towards him, showing him her watery, red-rimmed eyes, swollen mouth and the purple bruise under her chin, Jaime was sure he would be having nightmares of these images for a long time. No amount of alcohol and the hardest drugs would erase them.

“J-Jaime,” she whispered, her voice sounding weak. “H-Help.”

He only read about these things. They happened to people. Other people. Not to someone he knew. Not to someone like Brienne. Oh, gods. Never her.

As his mind slowly processed the violence before him, the dark fingers of horror began to claw at his chest, his throat. Jaime struggled to breathe and see straight as Roose calmly released Brienne’s nipple with a loud pop and deftly pulled up the zipper of his pants.

“Miss Tarth likes a certain brand of roughness, as you can see,” he said. “She likes to pretend—“

That voice. That too-smooth enunciation that sounded like a blade being sharpened. The smug expression of one who knew he would get away again. The horror seizing Jaime was replaced with a turmoil of anger so violent that if he didn’t do anything soon, it would eat him alive.

“Let me give you a taste of that rough play, then.”

Jaime threw his fist right at his pale face. Flesh yielded. Muscle. Then bone. It was a truly satisfying sound. Blood exploded from Roose’s mouth.

It wasn’t enough. _He hurt her. Brienne. He hurt Brienne._

So Jaime did it again.

And again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So where do I begin?
> 
> I hated writing this chapter. As the writer of this story, I have the choice to not go in this direction. The story demands to be told a certain way but it all depends on the writer whether to agree with where it wants to go or not. Writing is never easy, and writing about something like this even harder. 
> 
> The version you have is toned down. My first drafts were more disturbing but I just couldn't go there and post it. Not when the character is somebody like Brienne. So what you get is just what's written towards the end but still awful, awful, and Roose deserves to be put in a pot of boiling water. Or oil. I've hated Roose since he left Brienne behind to be raped by Locke. I hate even more that this fanfiction has Brienne being a victim in the worst possible way. So, for this, I apologize.
> 
> Please don't hate me.


	12. In Shreds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so thankful for your comments and kudos regarding the previous chapter. 
> 
> The next one is still pretty difficult to read. It's not a faithful depiction of what happens when doing a rape kit as I only based it from an episode of Law & Order: SVU.

It was a long, dark night.

Brienne’s eyes were heavy and swollen, struggling to remain awake as flashbulbs from the camera burned right through them. She grimaced, turning away. She kept her eyes closed the entire time the camera clicked, taking photos of her face and body that bore marks of the violence done to her. The bruise on her chin, where Roose hit her after she fell to the floor. The split on her lower lip, where he had bitten her. The bruise on her right breast, her left nipple red and hurting from his bite. The mark of his knuckles on her ribs, where piercing pains followed every time she breathed, no matter how carefully. The bruises on her wrists shaped like his fingers. The traces of blood and skin under her fingernails. When Brienne finally opened her eyes, the doctor had gotten down on one knee, photographing the bruises on her inner thighs.

The photographing of evidence was the first step in a long process that was nearly as worse as Roose forcing his tongue inside her mouth, his body heavy as his hands pushed up her top and grabbed her breasts. The swab swiped inside her mouth nearly made her gag.

But when Dr. Mordane started taking more swabs, swiping more samples of Roose’s fluids from her, it was almost like the near-rape. She whimpered softly as the doctor took a sample of his saliva from her nipple. Brienne’s throat hurt from restraining the sobs that longed to fall. The slight headache she had been nursing since Roose hit her had become a relentless sledgehammer beating her brain to mush. Mordane took samples from her breasts, her stomach. When she gently prodded at Brienne to get up on the bed and put her feet on the stirrups, the girl was close to falling apart.

The doctor was sympathetic. “I will be as gentle as possible, Brienne. I promise.”

There was not much she could do, was there? Brienne nodded shakily and let Dr. Mordane help her up on the bed.. Cool air washed over her cunt as she spread her legs. She tensed, reminded once again of Roose’s tongue cold and wet as a slug inside her mouth, hands gripping her breasts painfully. She could only remember sensations and brief flashes of his pale face, his dead, gray eyes because of the black sea rising to take her away as she lay weakly struggling on that floor. Maybe she should have given herself to the waves. If she had fallen unconscious, she wouldn’t remember. Maybe she should have let a man do what he wanted to her body. She was ugly but her body, because of its size, presented a challenge.

What little resolve and strength that was barely putting Brienne together was gone the instant the Dr. Mordane started taking swabs from her cunt. _She remembered_. She cried out, her voice stronger than the weak pleas she barely managed as she fought to remain conscious on the floor of Roose’s study. As she lay on her back, the memory of his cold lips pulling roughly and painfully at her nipples assaulted her. Then the shuffle of legs as she struggled to kick him. His hands unsnapping her pants then his fingers. . .

Icicles stabbing her cunt.

“Stop,” Brienne whispered, shaking her head as she felt herself being engulfed in the rising black sea again. Curling her fists, she tried to close her legs but the doctor put a glove hand on her knee to still her.

“Please, stop! Stop!” She screamed, thrashing.

Dr. Mordane held off and Brienne sobbed. Violent hiccups wracked hrough her body. As she whimpered, the doctor spoke gently.

“Brienne, you have to let me do this so we can gather the evidence to put him away.”

She shook her head. “It hurts.”

“I know.”

“I can’t. I can’t anymore. Please. I want to go home.”

“It’s almost over, Brienne. We have to do this. But we can only put him away if you could just. . .just hold on, honey, all right? I promise, it won’t hurt so much and then it will be over.”

Brienne wiped the tears away from her eyes. Will it truly be over? No. She knew that now. This will always be a part of her. Until her death. Maybe it will even follow her then.

“Detective Targaryen has called your roommate, as you asked. She’s waiting for you with fresh clothes.”

Fresh clothes. Brienne was confused. Why would she need new clothes? She dropped her hands and looked at the doctor. “Why—What would I need clothes for?”

“Evidence, Brienne. You can’t take them home with you.”

She wished it wasn’t only the clothes she didn’t have to take home with her.

“Can we continue, Brienne?”

“I don’t—“ She sighed brokenly. “I don’t even know why I have to do this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Who’s going to believe me?” Brienne felt her heart begin to crack. “And. . .he’s Roose Bolton. I—I mean, look at me.”

The doctor looked confused for a moment then her face cleared. “You look like a woman who’s been through Seven Hells.”

Brienne was suddenly very, very tired. She wiped the last of her tears away and nodded at the doctor. Her motions were sluggish. She spread her legs again. “Just do it.”

A couple more swabs inside, around and outside of her cunt, on her left inner thigh then the doctor announced it was over. She helped Brienne sit up and put a hand on her cheek comfortingly before dropping it. Brienne froze, remembering how she’d been touched her just. . .last night.

Last night felt like a long time ago. When emerald eyes looked at her, really looked at her. When she learned how it was to be kissed, really kissed.

Somebody knocked on the door. “Give us a second,” the doctor called out. She helped Brienne into a hospital gown before leading her behind a privacy screen.

The privacy screen only went up to Brienne’s shoulders. She watched as Dr. Mordane let in a petite blond with unusual violet eyes entered the room, holding a paper bag. Despite her small size, she walked with authority and wore a don’t-mess-with-me expression. This was Detective Daenerys Targaryen. Brienne recognized her. She had dashed to the scene, her blond ponytail bouncing behind her.

“Your friend brought you these,” she told Brienne. “How are you feeling?”

Brienne had no idea how to answer that. Daenerys nodded to herself and handed the bag to her. “Take your time, Brienne. But. . .when you’re feeling up to it, I need to get a statement from you.”

Brienne clutched the bag to her chest. “What for?” She looked at the doctor. “But—but I already. . .there’s evidence.”

“You’re tired. I understand that, Brienne. I really do.” Daenerys said softly. “I’ll wait outside. Whether you wish to give a statement now or later is up to you. But the sooner you’re able to provide it, the faster we can start the investigation. Of course, you have to get treated first for your cuts and wounds.”

“Start the investigation?” Brienne wrenched a t-shirt down her chest. The cotton was rough on her aching nipple. She squeezed her eyes shut then opened them. “Roose Bolton. . .the evidence will show you what he did to me. My face shows you what he did to me.”

“And I don’t doubt it. But. . .” Daenerys hesitated. “You can’t go home yet.”

Brienne wanted to cry. She was so tired—she had never been so tired and drained like this. All she wanted was to curl up in bed and forget this night, pretend, wish and pray to the Seven that this was a nightmare. Now she was in for more encounters with doctors. Then a statement. A fucking statement. She wanted to scream and tear the room apart.

Keeping her emotions under control was something she excelled in, although this long-standing practice was being put through the roughest test tonight. The clean clothes didn’t alleviate the pain from her nipple, the sore and stiffness on her thighs and her cunt. Brienne gritted her teeth as cramps seized her thighs and legs when putting on the track pants. Sansa had also packed sneakers in the bag—apparently, Brienne also had to leave behind her flats. Zipping up the gray hoodie, she left the room. Daenerys was standing outside, as she had said.

“We need to know what happened Brienne. You’ll have to walk me through that,” she said, easily falling into a step with the much taller woman.

Brienne froze and glared at her. “What do you mean walk you through it?”

Daenerys’s violet eyes were understanding but her expression was grave. “You’ll have to tell us everything that happened. From the beginning.”

Dear gods. She’ll have to relive having Roose’s cold mouth and fingers in her.

_Again._

Daenerys led her inside an examining room. A tall man with curly red hair was waiting. Brienne froze as he stood up. His scrubs and white coat indicated he was a doctor—it said so on his nameplate, Dr. Tormund Giantsbane. Daenerys quickly sprang in front of Brienne and demanded, “Isn’t there a female doctor?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. He shot Brienne a sympathetic look before turning to Daenerys. “But there’s been an accident in the subway and all the other doctors are there. I’m the only one who’s free.”

“Given the circumstances, some exceptions should at least be considered,” Daenerys insisted as Brienne huddled behind her. “Please get a female doctor.”

She must have given him a look because he sighed and left. Daenerys turned to Brienne. “I’m sorry about this, Brienne. Why don’t you sit down?”

Brienne gingerly settled on the bed. Now that the rape kit was done, all aches and pains were coming to surface. Daenerys noticed her discomfort and asked, “Are you alright?”

She shook her head. “I just want to go home.”

Suddenly, the door opened. Daenerys once again put herself protectively in front of Brienne as Jaime Lannister let himself in. His eyes were bloodshot and his face lined with exhaustion too. Brienne was quick to notice the wrapping around his right hand. As they stared at each other in shock, Sansa followed.

“Mr. Lannister, Miss Stark, you can’t be in here—“ Daenerys began but Sansa ducked under Jaime’s arm and ran to Brienne. She threw her arms around Brienne, who winced at the pain shooting from her chest at the hard impact of her body.

“Oh, gods, Brienne. Are you okay?” Sansa was hysterical. She had been crying and her hands were shaking as she touched Brienne’s cheeks. Seeing the bruises on her face, her face crumpled. Tears fell from Brienne’s eyes and Sansa hugged her again.

“Brienne still has to get treatment for her injures. You’re not supposed to be here.” Daenerys said irritably to Sansa and Jaime. “She has yet to give her statement.”

“I understand, Det. Targaryen,” Jaime’s voice sounded scratchy. It was slowly coming back to Brienne: Jaime shouting at Roose as he rained punches on his face. “But can’t you see how she is? It’s been fucking hours.”

Had it been merely hours? It felt like she had been here for _days._

“You just say the word, Brienne,” Sansa was saying to her. “Say the word and we’ll take you home.”

“She has to give her statement,” Daenerys reminded them. To Jaime, she said firmly, “The only way to ensure that Roose Bolton gets what he deserves is Brienne’s statement. The sooner she gives it, the sooner we can start the investigation.”

“Start the investigation?” Jaime demanded. “Look at her!”

“Mr. Lannister—“

“The fucking Bolton had his hand between her legs. I told you she was struggling. She was crying! What else do you need to investigate?” Jaime was practically roaring. Brienne wished he would stop. She was remembering. Everything. Again.

Sansa urged her to look at her. “Brienne? What do you want?”

The door opened again and Dr. Giantsbane was back. He looked annoyed. “Look, there’s no one else. I’m all you have. What are they doing here?” He demanded, glaring at Jaime then Sansa.

Daenerys sighed loudly. “Miss Stark, Mr. Lannister, we should go. Brienne needs treatment.”

Sansa was still speaking to Brienne. “Brienne? Tell me?”

All eyes were suddenly on her. Things were just getting. . .worse. All these questions, all the things she had to do. Rest. Sleep. That was what she wanted. All she wanted and nothing more. She wouldn’t pray to forget this night if she could just sleep.

“I can’t do my job if there’s a party here.” Dr. Giantsbane declared.

 _The party_. A harmless, nothing of a word until a few hours ago. Roose sending the guests away after telling Brienne to wait for him in the study. Brienne obeying, ignoring her own anxiety. She thought about maybe being able to catch Jaime but he was quickly gone. She was so disappointed in a way she couldn’t comprehend.

As she waited in the study, she wondered how tomorrow would be at Jaime’s place. Because she was going. He had seen her and did not find anything lacking or disgusting in her. For the first time in her life, somebody had looked at her, really looked at her.

_Then the door was opening and Roose let himself in._

The pain in her nipple reminded her of how it happened. After he hit her first on the stomach, he punched her in the face next. Twice. Close to fainting, she could only whimper and push uselessly at him, terrified as he pulled her shirt up and began to suck and bite her nipples. His hands pinned her arms above her ears, bruising her wrists. She managed to get one of her arms free and scratch him. But Roose didn’t let go. He bit her. Then he tore at her pants. That was when she managed to cry out. She was dizzy and losing consciousness but she forced herself to make that sound, hoping that somebody would hear. . .

“I—it hurts. I hurt.” Brienne choked out, trembling.

“I’m the only one who can do this right now. If she’s been bitten, I have to get to her now, at the risk of possible infection.” Dr. Giantsbane said. “I can throw you out, as I have the right, or one of you can stay here. But not this party. No way.”

“Brienne, do you want me to stay?” Sansa asked her.

Sansa was too emotional about this. Brienne trusted her but she couldn’t. . . _Sansa did everything to warn me. I was too stubborn._ The list of her regrets were growing. Seeing the horror on Sansa’s face, at Sansa berating herself for not emphasizing enough the dangers of further association with Roose Bolton, would surely be something Brienne would regret. She already blamed herself enough. Somebody else. She needed someone who wouldn’t break as Sansa would. Someone who might keep her together.

Brienne shook her head at Sansa and slowly turned her head toward Jaime. Understanding dawned on Daenerys’ face and she stepped aside. “Miss Stark. Come with me.”

If Sansa was puzzled over her decision, she didn’t show it. Instead, she kissed Brienne on the forehead and whispered she will wait outside. “I love you,” she added, hugging her again. Then she followed Daenerys out of the room.

Jaime went to her. He still looked furious but he was not as tensed anymore. Tentatively, Brienne held out her hand to him. He was quick to reach for it and sit down beside her. He brushed tendrils of her hair away from her bruised face with his bandaged hand.

“I’m not leaving, Brienne.”

She closed her eyes, feeling his words wash over her. For a moment, she was at peace. She was back in her apartment, on her couch, eyes closed and Jaime brushing his lips against her for the first time. She had been more startled than shocked. He had kissed her in a way she never thought she would be kissed. _This was why she kissed him back, and why she let him kiss her again and again._

Eyes still closed, she leaned forward, knowing precisely just how far away he was. And he wasn’t very far. She found his lips, chapped and dry but warm. She heard the sharp intake of his breath before he kissed her back. It was a gentle, careful brush. A small burst of flame melting the ice lingering in her.

Then she slowly leaned away, opening her eyes. Gone was the tensed expression on his face. His emerald eyes had softened too.

He took her hand—still clasped in his—and kissed it. Her heart, shattering so slowly and painfully since falling on the floor of the study and realizing what was about to happen, stilled. Then it beat.

“You are not alone in this. I won’t let you be alone. I swear it.”

Jaime wiped the tear falling from the corner of her eye with his thumb.

Dr. Giantsbane, looking up from the chart, then said, “I need you to take off your shirt. I'm sorry."

Brienne looked into Jaime’s eyes. He kissed her hand again.

“Will you help me?”

“Always.”

She took his hand and brought it to the zipper of her hoodie.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based the opening scene of this chapter from the Law & Order SVU episode that guest-starred Jennifer Love Hewitt. Her character had been raped repeatedly through the years by the same person. The scene where she was doing the rape kit is really difficult to watch. It also shows that post-rape, there is still a lot a victim has to deal with. 
> 
> Brienne wasn't raped here but came pretty close.


	13. Call Her By Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roose Bolton is the virtuoso conductor of the media circus.

Three weeks later

‘Bolton Bitch,’ ‘Bolton Beast,’ and ‘The Beast Who Howled Rape’ was how the newspapers dubbed Brienne. The coverage was relentless even three weeks later. It was tabloid fodder, according to a so-called analyst on TV. “Three Old Houses in a fight, one of them on the brink of extinction and stronger, powerful. We have a scandal. It’s better than any reality show around or can be conceived of. We have family drama, a possible crime, and another story of ‘he said, she said.’”

Jaime came close to throwing the TV out if not for Margaery and Tyrion’s intervention. Margaery shook her head at him and loosely gestured at her sons, Timothy and Ryan, who were playing in the other room, oblivious to the tension among the adults. Tyrion, staring calmly at Jaime, then said that the TV was not his to throw out. That he could go home if he wished and inflict the violence on _his_ TV.

That got to him. The ferocity ebbed away from Jaime’s eyes until they were a calmer but still furious green. With a sigh, he sat back down on the couch. Margaery shared a concerned look with Tyrion and went off to join their sons playing.

Jaime knew why Margaery, who had no qualms about being right in the middle of a lion storm, was detaching herself from it now. Since the night of Brienne’s near-rape by Roose Bolton, Jaime and Tyrion had been relentless in having Tywin change his mind about the partnership. Tywin could be a greedy bastard but he was quick to see the wisdom of not associating himself with such a person. However, he still refused to provide any legal aid for Brienne. Jaime couldn't believe it and wanted to curse at him in everye known language.

“Let the police do their job. We are already involved enough as it is,” he said, glancing pointedly at Jaime’s injury.

Weeks had passed since his right hand had healed and now, it was back in the binder again, so to speak. Fingers were broken this time and after the therapy, doctors predicted it would be close to a year before his hand got back to normal. It was a blow, right when he was just getting back on track. For once, Jaime wasn’t overly concerned about the future of his career. Neither did he care much for Roose Bolton suing him for battery and other ridiculous charges. As a Lannister, he had an army of lawyers that could make mincemeat out of these.

His only concern was Brienne.

Jaime’s anger had made a hamburger out of Roose’s face. A cheekbone cracked, nose broken, teeth popped out of his mouth. Roose was not only claiming damages in the tune of a million golden dragons for what Jaime did to his face—he was also suing Brienne. He alleged that she had seduced him, that it was her idea for him to be rough. His lawyer, a too-gleeful Vargo Locke, had spoken these words with relish. The report on Brienne’s injuries was consistent with rough sexual play.

A most ridiculous, fucking lie. Jaime would never forget the fear in Brienne’s eyes, her broken voice pleading with his name, for his help. Sleep was harder than before because of the haunting memories of the blood being cleaned from Brienne’s nipple, and her soft, weak mewls of pain as this was done. Almost every night he was back at that study and seeing Roose violating her. Jaime woke up wanting to kill.

Some rationality remained in him, and it sobered him enough to realize he was just one man. To hurt Roose in retaliation, though he deserved it, would never help. His fists were not the way. The servants claimed to have seen nothing, only hearing their boss crying out for help as Jaime beat him up. With Brienne scrambling into her clothes, it looked like Jaime had misunderstood the situation and reacted very wrongly.

After getting treatment for her injuries, Jaime brought Brienne over to Sansa, who had been waiting with her family. It was then that Brienne broke. Sansa’s parents, Ned and Catelyn Stark, were quick to throw their arms around Brienne as she cried and slumped heavily against them. As Catelyn and Ned led Brienne out, Sansa and Jaime exchanged looks.

“Take care of her,” he told her. He felt lost and helpless.

“We will.” She promised.

“Call me for whatever you need. Promise me, Sansa.” He pulled out a calling card from his wallet and handed it to her. “Anytime.”

“Thank you.”

He never saw nor heard from Brienne after that. He thought about speaking to Sansa but according to her boss at Mop Busters, she had asked to be switched from her original shift. A different pair from the service was now in charge of cleaning his loft. Jaime pressed on Margaery to get in touch with either girl. According to Olenna, Brienne only went home long enough to get some of ther things. Sansa returned a few days later to get more for things for her. Brienne wad at the Stark summer residence for a while, in Riverrun. The police allowed Brienne to leave the city because the police commissioner, Brynden Tully, was a brother of Catelyn’s. He vouched for her to return.

Jaime respected Brienne’s need for distance. It proved to a good move because Roose Bolton’s spin doctors got to work fast and soon portrayed her as a money-hungry seductress who had second thoughts about the rough sex she demanded from him. It was brutal. Margaery complained that she couldn’t see her grandmother because of the media camped outside the apartment building. A week passed then Roose’s lawyers filed a lawsuit against Jaime, threatening to take him to court if he didn’t compensate their client for medical expenses, as well as the physical and mental torment he was dealing with in the aftermath All this would go away if Jaime coughed up the one million golden dragons.

Money, the Lannisters had in the billions. Billions upon billions. The lawsuit was the blow that broke the camel’s back in the negotiations between Tywin and Roose. Tywin loathed the suit but had no problem throwing money at the problem. When Jaime found out about this, he flew in a rage and snarled at his father that he refused to settle, and if he settled on Jaime’s behalf, he would tell the whole world about the exact nature of the relationship he had with his sister. He knew Tywin had done everything to quash any rumors about them and succeeded.

Now, the only who was clearly succeeding was Roose Bolton.

“Brienne is back in the city,” Tyrion said as Jaime forced himself to sit down.

He stiffened sharply. “Since when?”

“Calm down—“

“How long? Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

Tyrion’s mismatched eyes warned him to stay still. As Jaime forced himself to relax, his brother continued, “I only found out last night. She snuck back to King City. She’ll be reporting at Mop Busters tomorrow.”

“Am I still in her route?”

“I don’t know. But Jaime, she must know how she’s being portrayed. I know you want to help her but you haven’t heard from her—“

“That’s because she thinks no one would believe her. That there’s nothing she can do.” Jaime was mad at the world for how it had been towards Brienne. I know what I look like, she told him. This was precisely how Roose’s PR had manipulated the press against her: that she was an ugly, impoverished woman, the last of a near-extinct ancient House who thought to get her claws on a helpless, older rich man who had done nothing but help and give her opportunities for employment. A headline, 'Beast Against Daddy Bolton,' nearly had Jaime ripping apart the newsstand with his bare hands. 

“Hells, Jaime, we can’t even do anything about Roose’s lawsuit. I don’t blame you—had I been there, I would have done the same thing.”

“What about the police? What the fuck are they doing?”

“It wasn’t exactly a wise move for Brienne to leave in the thick of things. Her silence implies guilt. And truth to the shit Roose has been spewing about.”

Jaime ran his fingers through his hair helplessly. “All the more reason I must speak to her.”

“She’s not making Det. Targaryen’s job easy. Twice she was asked to come down to the station for clarifications but she hasn’t.” Tyrion shrugged as Jaime looked at him curiously. “Alright, fine. She’s my source. The detective wants to help her but how can you help someone who refuses it? There’s only so much that can be done.”

“She’s not working hard enough.”

“Hard enough? Asking Det. Targaryen to face off ancient dragons would be much easier than dealing with this Tarth woman. She’s a fucking, impenetrable wall.”

 _“Brienne._ ” Jaime snapped.

“What?”

“Her name’s Brienne. She’s not a ‘Tarth woman’ and she’s definitely not a beast, bitch or anything that Bolton says her to be.” It was clear that these irritated Jaime a lot. Tyrion looked at him again, curiously. His mismatched eyes were sharp and assessing, looking out for tell-tale twitches or any other facial and bodily signals from his brother.

At any other time, he would tease Jaime. He could definitely use it. But he was so tensed and snappish Tyrion feared that the beating the TV had been spared from would be transferred to him.

“You care about her. A lot.”

“Of course I do.” Jaime answered quickly. “No one seems to. Not enough." He clasped his hands together. "She’s all alone.”

“You do have a penchant for being a champion of broken things.”

“She’s not broken.” He hoped so. The wench who stood naked before him and dared him to look at her, really look at her, had been pushed to that action after a lifetime of being degraded and humiliated. She may have been broken but the woman from that night was far from that. Jaime’s tongue filled with bitterness at the possibility that Brienne’s tenacity was now gone due to Roose Bolton. Roose Bolton of all people.

No, she couldn’t be broken. Or not as broken as she should be. Jaime went back to the kiss she gave him in the examination room. Too soft, too tentative, but he felt right in the core of his being. It was like she was reminding herself of something good and drawing strength from it. Jaime would be part of everything good to remind her if it kept her strong and fighting. He would kiss every inch of her, give her the sun and moon, rainbows and stars. Buy her the best, most beautiful cello and have her play only the best compositions from it. If they kept her together, reminded her to be strong, he would hand them all to her, no questions asked.

He believed his words but there was truth in her eyes from that night in the hospital too. She was scared. And tired. A tiredness that went beyond the physical.

 Fucking Seven Hells, but the gods were cruel. If they had actual physical forms, Jaime would bash their heads against the wall. Including the Mother, the Maiden and the Crone. He’ll take on the Stranger first. Or maybe the Warrior.

“Jaime, the only way you can help her is if she lets you. I applaud you—I’m on your team, but there’s nothing we can do if she won’t even go to Det. Targaryen to clarify some of her statements. Maybe she’ll listen to you. Or to the Starks.” Tyrion said. “You have quite a battle with this one, brother, before anything can be done.”

“You know I love a good fight,” Jaime retorted, hoping he sounded as confident as he would like to believe. Maybe for once, Tyrion wouldn’t be so astute.

 

Harrald must have issued a memo to the employees because no one was looking oddly at Brienne or giving her a too-wide berth when she arrived at work. Being away had only diluted the cruelty of the press slightly, very slightly. Brienne didn’t want to leave—she had to work, she had to make a living. But with the Starks refusing to let her out of their sight, she had no choice. They were also bending backwards ensuring that she could take time off. She didn’t want to be ungrateful so she agreed for them to whisk her away.

The Starks were very protective but at least they weren’t choking her. Catelyn and Sansa took her shopping, for one. Ned, who was best friends with Selwyn, invited her to jam with him—she didn’t have her cello with her but she knew how to play the guitar. Robb was home from law school and he and Sansa took her to drive-in movies, for burgers and milkshakes. The children, Arya, Bran and Rickon, were also good company.

Bran, lanky at fifteen and tragically confine to the wheelchair for the rest of his life, had become Brienne’s favorite person to hang out with. He had been nine when a fall crippled him. He was a handsome young man, smiling often. Because he had experienced a great tragedy, he had some insight on how Brienne must be feeling.

One day, while watching the rest of the family play touch football, the two of them hung out at steps. The day was warm but Brienne had stuck to heavy sweaters and track pants since the night of the assault. She was often cold though she didn’t have a temperature.

“It happened to me, too.” Bran suddenly said. “Sometimes, I still have them.”

Puzzled, Brienne looked up from the piece of grass she was chewing. “What?”

“Nightmares. About what happened.”

She flushed and looked at her lap. “You heard me screaming.”

Everytime she found herself on her back, in bed, the nightmares would rush through her, shattering through images of Jaime’s eyes like an incoming a train. The cool, comforting emeralds of his gaze would vanish, replaced by the pale, nearly-white eyes of Roose. Then his tongue was in her mouth, his fingers were in her again, thick and blunt.

“If it helps, mine were a lot more girlish.” Bran assured her and she felt herself smile softly. “I know how they are, Brienne. They’re family. The first year was the worst. They didn’t know how to talk to me, didn’t even know if they should talk to me about it. And I was angry. Not at them. I still get angry but I remember that none of it was my fault.” He looked at her, his eyes wise. “Just as none of what happened to you is your fault.”

Brienne lowered her head.

“He’ll get what he deserves, Brienne.”

She sighed.

“He will.”

Talking with Bran helped but Brienne knew she couldn’t hide out here forever. The Starks hoped she would stay for the rest of the summer but she needed to work. She needed money. Seeing the resolve in her face, Ned and Catelyn agreed to let her leave.

Sansa was still fixing her hair so Brienne arrived at the conference room first, waiting with a few others for the day’s assignments. Harrald peeked in and bade her to come forward. “Brienne. If you would come with me?”

She looked around then nodded. Harrald saw her hesitation and gave her an understanding look. “Someone—someone has asked for you. He’s in my office.”

Brienne left the room and followed him to the short hallway. She noticed that her boss was walking way ahead of her. While she appreciated his sensitivity, it was beginning to get to her. Yes, she was still terrified. She still had nightmares. There were times she thought that every man was out to get her and hurt her. But it hurt how Uncle Ned wouldn’t be alone with her. Or even Robb, who used to tease and tickle her. Now her boss.

“Sansa’s there too.” Harrald said over his shoulder. “She’ll stay if you want her to.”

“Who has come to see me?”

“Jaime Lannister.”

Brienne paused and Harrald glanced at her. “You okay there, Brienne? I’ll ask him to leave, if you want.” He sounded concerned but didn’t move any closer to her.

_Jaime. Jaime’s here._

The morning after that night, Brienne realized how her actions could be interpreted. She had kissed him. Asked him to stay with her. Asked him to help her out of her clothes for the doctor to examine and heal her. Jaime was quiet the entire time, only moving when she asked or took his hand on her person.

Roose Bolton had painted her as some desperate, opportunistic _whore._ She bit her lip, feeling herself shake. The truth was, when she kissed Jaime, it was because she could feel herself falling apart. They didn’t know each other for very long but she had trusted him with her body, with her insecurities. How else do you reward trust? He asked after the first time _he_ kissed her. By kissing Jaime in that examination room, she was fighting against her growing fear of men. Fighting for some old part of her to remain. That Roose Bolton had not taken everything.

He hadn’t but he was going for a lot more. She knew about his suit against Jaime too. If it wasn’t her name being bloodied in the media, it was Jaime’s. Sansa said that Jaime told her to call him anytime. Brienne had so wanted to call him. She slept with his calling card under her pillow every night. But she was afraid. He must loathe her for getting him into this mess that was her own making. Hadn’t Sansa pleaded, warned her enough? But she had needed money. She had needed references for more tutorial jobs. Brienne Tarth was not desperate, she was not an opportunist but who was going to believe her?

And with Det. Targaryen calling and calling for her to clarify the statement—Brienne was just tired. She could just imagine going to her, doing as requested then being told that there will never be case against Roose Bolton. She wasn’t ready for that yet. And she certainly wasn’t ready to be berated by Jaime.

 _What else have I got to lose?_ She thought bitterly, staring wordlessly at the closed door of Harrald’s office.

“Just say the word, Brienne,” Harrald said.

She shook her head. “I’ll see him. I’ll talk to him.”

“Sansa and I will stay with you.”

“There’s no need.”

She brushed past Harrald and pushed open the door. Jaime was sitting on the chair by Harrald’s desk while Sansa was pacing back and forth. Jaime scrambled to his feet, staring back at the inscrutable expression on Brienne’s face.

“I’ll be alright, Sansa,” she said woodenly.

Sansa frowned but she didn’t question her decision. She nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Jaime looked at her from head to toe, probably assessing if she was alright, had gained weight or looked uglier than usual. In her Mop Busters uniform, she didn’t look as horrendous as the pink one for Ruff N’ Roll. But she knew her eyes were shadowed from lack of sleep, that her shorts were baggier and had to be held up by a belt now. Jaime wasn’t looking too well either. His right hand was still in a cast and there was an edgier, rougher look to him. Still a handsome devil, although it looked like he too was having trouble sleeping.

“Wench.” At Brienne’s frown, Jaime flushed and shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Have you come here to yell at me?”

“Yell at you?”

“Just say you regret it,” Brienne said through gritted teeth. “The gods know there’s a lot more I can take.”

Jaime looked annoyed. “Why the fuck would I yell at you?”

“I’m sorry. I know it means nothing but I’m sorry that you had to be there, that you felt you had to intervene—“ she started to say. Jaime looked at her as if she was mad.

“Are you fucking apologizing for being almost raped? Apologizing to me for hurting that abomination of a man?” Jaime demanded.

“He’s suing you. And look at your hand.”

“He can stuff that in his ass. The lawsuit,” Jaime snapped. “What the hells makes you think I’m angry at you?”

“Why are you here? Aren’t you here to tell that I should have known better? Because Sansa warned me enough. I should have known when he came on to me for the first time. But I didn’t think—because look at me!”

To Brienne’s mortification, tears suddenly fell from her eyes. She gasped and turned away, her humiliation complete.

As she cried and wheezed, Jaime stood his ground, just watching her. “You blame yourself?”

“All I know is things happened because I don’t know how to make good decisions,” she sobbed. “I—I should have listened---“

The sentence never reached its end because a gasp escaped her instead of words becauseJaime threw his arms around her. The hard, solid frame of his body was the wall holding up her trembling self. She had frozen for a moment, transported once again to that night but there was no cold mouth forced on her lips, no cold hands tearing at her clothes. No scotch breath choking her. It was Jaime, musk lightly touched with the spice of his cologne, sweat. Her quivering chin was quick to find a home on his shoulder. He didn’t make shushing noises; he just held her, the stillness to the storm ravaging her mind and body. As her sobs softened to breathless mewls and whimpers, her hands tentatively climbed to his shoulders.

“You’ve been bottling all that inside, aren’t you?” He whispered against her ear. His hold on her was still firm.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she asked, “Are you mad at me?”

“What?” He drew away and she quickly regretted speaking. Jaime patted his pockets and she thought now was the time to drop her arms from him too. His quick search yielded nothing so, to her surprise, he started brushing her drying tears with his knuckles. She was sure there was snot dripping from her nose too so she took a hard sniff. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips and she blushed.

“Why,” he asked, looking at her face for any more signs of her distress before once again withdrawing. “Why do you think I’m here to yell at you, wench?”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Sorry. But care to enlighten me?” When her eyes momentarily fell on her shoes before raising back to his face, he added, in a gently chiding tone, “I told Sansa you could call me anytime. I gave her my card. I had to find out from other people you’re back.”

“I have it.” She said. “It’s just. . .Jaime, I know what. . .I heard about the lawsuit.”

“Forget about it. I have people dealing with it. You. I’m here to check on you.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Why do you think that again?” He sounded cross.

“Roose is suing you for. . .for helping me.”

“And I’d do it again, a thousand times over,” he said, shooting her a look of disbelief. “Forget about me, Brienne. You. I want to know about you. You’re working again?”

She nodded. “I need to.”

“I heard. . .I heard that Det. Targaryen has asked you to clarify some things about your statement.”

This time she was cross. “How do you know that?”

“If you’re not going to tell me anything about you, I’ll have to find out for myself. I was worried. I still worry. How are you?”

“I really don’t know how to answer that,” she admitted after a moment. “If I’ll be able to give a straight answer.”

“About the statement. . .”

“What good will it do?” At Jaime’s surprised look, she added, “Like you don’t know how I’m being portrayed. I don’t see the point of clarifying things and answering more questions when I’m being slaughtered in the press.”

“I know.” Jaime confirmed, sounding grim. “I also know the truth”

“But who’s going to believe me?”

“I believe you. Det. Targaryen believes you. I understand your having to go away. I really do. But don’t you think you’ve retreated long enough?”

Brienne couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Are you calling me a coward?”

Jaime flinched. “I’m not calling you anything. I’m just saying you’re not fighting back. That’s not the woman I know.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Not well enough. Not intimately, yes.” Jaime agreed. “Something terrible happened to you. A crime. _A crime that demands justice_. I don’t give a fuck about Roose Bolton filing multi-million lawsuits against me but you I care about. _You, Brienne_.” His eyes burned like wildfyre. “You’re the woman who dared me to see the truth about you and I’ve never been able to forget. That’s the woman I know. I understand about being unsure and scared. I know how it is to be not believed. But you can’t. . .I beg you to not let him get away with this.”

As he spoke, he took her hand. Brienne stared at their entwined fingers, remembering how she had reached for him that night. His kiss on her hand. Jaime Lannister looked like a knight from a romantic dream, and kissed like one too. His kiss got her heart beating again, even when it was only to comfort. She would sleep willing herself to remember only their kisses, in her apartment, in the hospital. Praying they are all she remembers and nothing else.

She knew there was no way to turn back time but maybe one of the Seven would hear and grant the very wish of her heart.

“I swore to you that you won’t be alone in this.” Jaime said hoarsely, revealing for the first time just how affected he was by what happened. “That still stands.”

When Brienne didn’t reply, he sighed and gently released her hand. He seemed to understand her need for more time. She was grateful. “All you have to do is call me.” He told her before leaving.

Brienne threw herself to work, losing herself to the monotony of scrubbing walls and floors, finding comfort in how the roar from the vacuum cleaner sucking dust and dirt drowned out her thoughts, all of them screaming at her. At least it wasn’t Roose Bolton poisoning her thoughts. That was only at night, when none of her defenses were up.

Still, he didn’t have the right.

She could barely stand when her shift was over, and was wincing as she raised her arms to pull off her t-shirt. Quickly getting back to her street clothes, she packed up her uniform and went to the locker room. Sansa was putting on her sandals.

“I think we deserve a couple of monster sundaes,” Sansa was saying cheerfully. “My treat.”

Brienne took her backpack from the locker and put it on. “Do you mind if we pay Det. Targaryen a visit first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the moment, Roose Bolton is out on bail. Sexual assault did happen but the guy's got good lawyers. His team had also painted Brienne as an opportunist, taking advantage of her lack of power, hence, her refusal to clarify some parts of her statement and fight back. Don't forget that Roose's team argued that what happened between them is rough play gone bad, and Brienne's injuries are consistent with the claim. 
> 
> But don't you worry. Even if Brienne, right now, is sure that she'll never win, the ending of this chapter gives us hope. We'll also see that even if without her, Det. Daenerys Targaryen has also been hard at work finding a way to pin down Roose Bolton. You'll see. 
> 
> Thank you. Please comment!


	14. Your Sword Shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne realizes how broken she is. There is only one person who can mend her.
> 
> Or at least, remind her she may not be as broken as she believes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN UPDATE AT LAST!

A few days would pass before anything pertaining to Brienne would concern Jaime. Tyrion assured him that he was in contact with Det. Targaryen, who kept him posted as much as she was legally allowed to. Brienne had gone to her and went over her statement. This gave Jaime some relief but not knowing as much as he needed to be assured that she was alright was testing his limited patience. The wench had yet to call him.

But this could be a good thing. It meant she was alright, as he was told. She didn’t need him.

On Wednesday afternoon, a visitor rang his doorbell. Jaime looked through the peephole and sighed. A normal man would be thrilled to receive such a beauty, young and sexy—she ticked all the boxes. But he had beauty—he had fucked the most beautiful woman in Westeros—and learned the painful way that it was all he had, beauty. Perhaps this explained his fascination with the sapphire-eyed Brienne. That was his only interest, he had to emphasize to a dubious Tyrion. Brienne the tallest, ugliest woman around. She also had the most gorgeous eyes. Despite looking like she could take on an entire football team, she had a fragility about her that roused his protective instincts. If there was attraction, well, it was only because he hadn’t fucked a woman in so long. He was in the prime of his life, he was a flesh-and-blood male. Why wouldn’t his cock stir at the sight of a naked woman despite having barely-there tits and the homeliest face? He wanted to kiss and hold her because this was how he used to assure Cersei that everything was alright. That she was safe. It was what he knew, and it worked.

However, it didn’t sit well with him the possibility that Brienne only kissed him because it worked. He also shouldn’t be popping boners nor entertaining thoughts regarding her when she was scarred from the assault in ways he would never know. If only he could control his dreams. If only he fantasized about his visitor. Things would certainly be easier.

He gave his visitor another look through the hole then opened the door. Sansa Stark was not his favorite person in the world but she was his link to Brienne. And she did care for the wench. She was also not Margaery. Still, he had to try for a pleasant, blank expression. “What can I do for you?”

“You have to talk to Brienne.” Without waiting for an invitation, Sansa nudged him aside and entered his loft. Her ponytail hit him right on the chin and Jaime grimaced. He closed the door.

“We saw Det. Targaryen a few days ago. When you spoke to her.” Sansa was speaking fast. Jaime noticed for the first time that her forehead shone with sweat and her cheeks flushed. She looked like she had run all the way. “You got through to her and that’s how we found out that Roose Bolton had done this before. Det. Targaryen is just making sure that there are enough grounds to arrest the bastard. Brienne actually looked quite okay for the first time since that night.” Suddenly, her voice ended in a sound between a sob and choke. Jaime’s bored expression switched to concern.

Roose Bolton had done this before. _But why Brienne? Of all the people he could do it to again, why her?_

“Wht happened?”

“You know that Roose is suing her, right? Well, the Marillion called yesterday and said that one of their requirements for applicants is no criminal record. They’re considering the lawsuit as a fucking criminal record.” Sansa sounded angry, disappointed and despondent at the same time. “They’ve rescinded the invitation for Brienne to audition.”

‘WHAT?” Jaime yelled, making Sansa jump.

Seven Bloody Hells, Brienne couldn’t catch a fucking break!

“Where is she? What’s she doing now?” He demanded, ignoring Sansa sobbing. He was shaking as his temper rippled through him. _What more did this girl had to go through?_

“We—I have work at Mop Busters everyday. Brienne is back at Ruff N’ Roll. She’s supposed to be there today.”

“Supposed to be there today? What the fuck do you mean?”

Sansa jumped again at the rage in his voice but she managed to speak.

“The last time I saw her was this morning. Before I left for work. I called Pod—he’s the guy she’s partnered with there—because I was looking for Brienne. I thought we could go out. He said—He said she didn’t make it to work.”

Jaime froze. Oh, dear gods.

“I—I called Det. Targaryen but she was out. And Olenna’s on her check-up so she’s out. I would have called you sooner but Brienne took your card---I’m scared.” Sansa wiped the sleeve of her shirt across her eyes. “Jaime, I just know something’s happened to her. I pray I’m wrong.”

As soon as Sansa finished talking, Jaime was one the phone and running out of his loft. He took his car keys from the hook on the wall. He left a voice message for Tyrion and also got in touch with his assistant, ordering the hapless guy to get his ass in the closed door meeting his brother was in and tell him it was urgent he call back. Next, Jaime called Det. Targaryen. She answered on the second ring.

“Sansa’s been calling you. Brienne’s been missing since—“ he turned and saw Sansa standing helplessly by the door while he was fumbling with his car keys. He glared at her and gestured sharply. “Sansa, get over here. When did you last see Brienne?”

“Eight forty-five.” Sansa answered, understanding from Jaime’s gestures that she was to get in the car with him. Jaime slid behind the wheel.

“Eight forty-five,” Jaime hollered at the phone. “The Marillion got wind of Bolton’s lawsuit against Brienne and they’re treating it as a criminal record. They won’t let her audition anymore.”

“You didn’t try contacting her?” Det. Targaryen asked.

“Did you try calling her?” Jaime demanded as he started the car. As he swerved toward the street, he pressed the speaker function of the phone. He drove one-handed while held the phone in the other.

“I did. Seven times. She didn’t answer.” Sansa sounded really fearful now. “Oh, shit.”

“I’ll get our tech guys to track her,” Det. Targaryen said. “Do you have any idea where she might be?”

“I—I don’t know. Brienne doesn’t really like going out. Tarth, maybe? But she doesn’t any ties there anymore.” Sansa answered.

“We’ll check the airlines and the ferry. In the meantime, keep your phone free.”

“Tarth?” Jaime demanded to Sansa. “You think she’ll go there?”

“But she doesn’t have family there anymore,” Sansa seemed to be speaking to herself out loud. “Her old house was demolished, and people bullied her. They were cruel to her. Why would she go back?”

“Jaime,” Det. Targaryen said. “Does she have her phone with her?”

“Yes,” Sansa answered. “She took it with her.”

“I’ll get our tech to track here. Let’s hope she hasn’t turned it off or chucked it to the river.” Then she hung up.

Jaime drove, foot pressed hard on the accelerator. Sansa put on her seatbelt, yanking it tightly across her body. She grasped the overhead bar next to the window, gasping when Jaime flew over a speed bump then fell hard.

“Where’s her Dad buried?”

Sansa groaned. “Tarth. Could you go slower?”

“No. How would she go there?”

“If Brienne really wants to leave? The airlines. The ferry would take too long. It’s four hours.”

“Go there, anyway. I’ll check the airlines.” Jaime told her as the phone rang again. Groaning, he picked it up. “Det.Targaryen?”

“We found her. Falcon Park. We’re going there now.” Then the line went dead again.

Jaime overtook another car and its driver honked at him. His middle finger shot up as he guided the car forward. “Jaime, the light’s turning red!” Sansa exclaimed but he ignored her, flooring it and once again practically having the car flying. As they sped past the intersection, Sansa glared at him.

“I care for Brienne too but that’s not going to happen if I’m going to die here!”

“I’m not apologizing for wanting to get to her fast,” Jaime snapped.

“You don’t even know her,” Sansa suddenly blurted out. “We’ve been best friends for years.”

“I’ll never know her as well as you do,” Jaime admitted. “But that does not mean I don’t care for as much as you do.”

“What happened between you, anyway?” Sansa demanded, wincing as he swerved again. “Brienne’s the nicest person I know but she thought you were an asshole when she first met you.”

“I am _an_ asshole. I’m an asshole to everybody. Are we through with our heart to heart? Because I would really appreciate some quiet while driving.”

Sansa sighed loudly and muttered something like, “bonehead.”

They reached Falcon Park fifteen minutes later, thanks to Jaime ignoring speed limits. Squad cars lined the edge of the park and there was an ambulance on standby. Jaime hit the breaks and leaped out of the car, not bothering to wait for Sansa. Two police officers quickly barricaded him.

“I’m Jaime Lannister.” He told them calmly. “Let me through.”

“Police orders, sir.”

“I know Det. Targaryen.” Jaime tried to move past them but the officers stood firm.

“Step back, Mr. Lannister.”

“My father, Tywin Lannister, is good friends with the police chief. I’m sure you would rather he tell the good chief that Officers—“ He glanced at their names. “Greyjoy and Tanner assisted me regarding Brienne Tarth. She is a good friend of the family, you see.”

He stared back smugly at them, almost enjoying the conflict on their faces as they weighed the promised menace or good fortune of his words. T. Greyjoy glanced behind him while K. Tanner stared back at Jaime, the uncertainty in his face growing by the second. Jaime would have savored it if not for the fear threatening to choke him.

The two police officers looked at each other and Tanner nodded. “Alright, Mr. Lannister—“

Suddenly, a shrill whistle broke out followed by a cry. “We found her! We need a medic!”

Sansa, who was standing behind Jaime, smothered a cry by clamping her hands on her mouth. “Oh, gods, Brienne.”

Jaime shoved through Tanner and Greyjoy and ran along with the stretcher being pushed towards the park. The officers on standby quickly formed a barricade around the curious onlookers already in the park. Jaime ignored the calls for him to stop because _Seven fucking hells if he wasn’t going to see the wench first._

Suddenly, from behind he trees, he saw Det. Targaryen walking slightly ahead. . .and behind her was a scruffy-looking man in a suit carrying Brienne in his arms. Jaime paused, his eyes quickly going to the too-still form of Brienne. Det. Targaryen rushed to him. The man was red in the face and sweating profusely, struggling as he was from Brienne’s heavy weight.

“It’s heatstroke. She’s sunburned but she’ll be alright,” she told him.

“Let me have her—“ Jaime swept past her to get Brienne from the guy but Det. Targaryen quickly grabbed him by the arm.

“No.” Violet eyes met his and their stare was unflinching in response to his anger. “She needs to be checked. Mr. Lannister, step aside so she can get medical attention.” When Jaime refused to budge, glaring at her, she narrowed her eyes and growled. “Step aside or I’ll have you thrown out for interfering in a police investigation.”

Jaime watched as Brienne was put on the stretcher. She was moaning and her skin was so red, like a lobster. “Where are you taking her?”

The medical team quickly grasped the stretcher and dashed away.

“Mr. Lannister—“

“Her roommate came to get me because Roose Bolton’s suit caused the Marillion to rescind its invitation for her to audition. I’m practically her fucking guardian. You will withhold information from me on what grounds, exactly?”

“I was going to say you can ride in the ambulance with her. Provided you don’t get in the way of her treatment.”

Jaime ran after the team, hollering at Sansa to follow them in his car and throwing the keys at her. He didn’t check if she got them. He leaped inside the cab and the doors shut. He almost lost his balance as the truck lurched forward.

“Brienne,” he said, desperate to hear her voice. When her head only lolled weakly at the sound, one of the EMTs shook his head.

“Just let her be, sir.”

They snipped Brienne’s t-shirt, their gloved hands brisk and business-like as they peeled it open. Brienne’s chest and breasts were also alarmingly red and Jaime had to swallow his concerned inquiry. Wordlessly, he watched as they tucked ice packs under her armpits. When one of the EMTs tried to pull off her pants, a sound between a moan and cry came from Brienne. This time Jaime didn’t shut up.

“She was sexually assaulted a couple of weeks ago. Do you really need to remove her pants?” He snarled.

“We need to get her body temperature down, sir. I’m sorry, ma’am.” The EMT told Brienne, who was beginning to struggle. “But I have to do this.”

“Jaime,” Brienne managed to say. Her voice was scratchy. “Where—“

Jaime quickly walked around the other EMT and sat down beside her. Gods, but it was painful to look at her. The tip of her nose was peeling, revealing pink skin underneath. Her lips were cracked. Her blue eyes struggled to remain open. He took her hand and kissed it. Her skin was _searing_.

“Don’t let them take my pants,” she whispered. “Please, Jaime.”

“I know, wench,” He whispered back. “But you’re practically burning. They need to bring your temperature down.”

She shook her head. “I want my t-shirt.”

Jaime spoke over his shoulder, “Will she be covered up when we get to the hospital?”

“Yes, sir. Don’t worry, ma’am.”

But Brienne’s eyes were still pleading. Jaime nodded and kissed her hand again. “She keeps her pants on. But swear to me you’ll be alright, Brienne, or I’ll—“

“I’m sorry.” The EMT was firm. “But you can’t make decisions like this, sir. I have to get her temperature down. She’s severely dehydrated and still suffering from heatstroke.” So he started to unbutton Brienne’s pants. Brienne wailed, struggling.

“No! Jaime, please—“

“Get your fucking hands off her!” Jaime growled, slapping the EMT’s hands away. He shot a warning look at the EMT’s partner and turned to Brienne. “Wench, I understand.” He kissed her hand again, looking at her desperately. “But they need to make you feel better. I know this is difficult but you’re not well, sweetheart.” He looked in her eyes and said, carefully, “How about if I remove your pants?”

Brienne’s face was twisted in fear and anger. She looked ridiculous with ice bags under her armpits, her breasts bare and the nipples hardening to stiff, dark pink tips. Jaime wanted to kick himself for being tempted to swipe his tongue round and round one plump nipple, or wrap his lips around it and suck until she moaned and came.

_You really need to fuck a woman soon._

Brienne still looked miserable but she gave a weak nod. Jaime unbuttoned her jeans and pulled down the zipper.

Harsh, quickened breathing filled the ambulance cab. Jaime took care in inching the pants down her long legs, his teeth biting his lips. While Brienne was getting some relief with her pants now off her, his were getting so fucking hot and tight. A glimpse of the narrow triangle of her white panties and heavily freckled thighs had his cock practically jumping in attention. Jaime squirmed, looking away from the glorious display of flesh and muscle.

More ice packs were pressed against her. Jaime held her hand for the rest of the ride, willing for her to get well as well as for his cock to behave. It was remembering the night she stood naked and ordered him to not mock her. He resolutely focused on her ugly, freckled face with the peeling nose tip and cheeks. But his arousal didn’t go away. Instead, it grew painfully hard. When his eyes fell on her cunt concealed under sensible cotton, his cock hardened even more.

A sheet was thrown over Brienne’s body before she was wheeled out of the ambulance. “Jaime,” she spoke again, her voice still too weak and dry. Her grip tightened on his hand but the EMTS were already taking her away, until she had no choice but to let go. Jaime could only stare helplessly as doctors and nurses quickly swarmed around Brienne while pushing her into the emergency room. He saw her head swiveling weakly.

“I won’t go anywhere,” he called after her, knowing he would be thrown out if he insisted on joining her. “I swear it, Brienne. I’ll be here.”

Stuck in the lobby with nothing to do, Jaime made calls to Tyrion, Margaery and Tywin. Sansa and Det. Targaryen arrived five minutes later. The scruffy man in a rumpled suit—the one carrying Brienne earlier—joined them. This was Det. Daario Naharis. Jaime threw him a sharp, disapproving glare before turning away to finish firing off the first of the many orders that needed to be made to remedy this fucking atrocity towards Brienne Tarth.

“You heard her play. You know that she’s innocent. You can overturn this fucking decision,” Jaime was telling Tywin as he paced back and forth.

“The Marillion only wants the best and brightest music students with unblemished records. It has to think of its reputation.”

“Haven’t you been listening? Brienne never did any of the things Bolton is accusing her of!” Jaime took a deep breath and demanded, “You’re still going to work with that bastard.”

“No. But if you want me to take up the cause of this girl, you’re going to have to give me a good reason.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Anyone who isn’t us is an enemy.”

“What?”

“I refuse to drag the family name in a sordid scandal over some. . .woman.”

Jaime couldn’t believe this. “Seven Bloody Hells, Father. Even when you know she’s innocent, when you can overturn this fucking move by the Marillion, you won’t because she’s not a Lannister?”

“What’s in it for us?”

“Something along the lines of a conscience and doing what’s right!”

“The right thing is to prioritize the family. Always.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You, talking about family, when Cersei—“

“You will not mention her name again.”

Jaime looked behind him and snuck behind a pillar. This area of the hospital did not see a lot of foot traffic. He was gripping the phone so tightly he wouldn’t be surprised if he crushed it.

“Deny it all you want, Father. I fucked my—“

Tywin Lannister hung up.

The phone flew from Jaime’s hand, followed by a mighty angry roar.

 

As per hospital policy, Brienne was in a wheelchair until reaching the doors of the hospital. Sansa offered to help her up but she refused with a vehement (or maybe not) shake of her head.

The doctor who saw her was the same guy from the night of the assault. He was insistent about keeping her overnight due to her severe dehydration and sun exposure. A fever wrapped around her body still, refusing to yield to the assault of ice packs, ice, water, and a bath to help bring it down. Between Brienne’s ears was the persistent, heavy drumming sound, portending a massive headache.

She lowered her head, blushing when she saw the Starks had joined their daughter. Ned and Catelyn were like the parents she never had. They had been more than helpful, they were protective. They cared. She was familiar with their brand of concern. It was sincere and she was grateful but Ned and Catelyn would hardly let her breathe, hovering at her hand and foot and getting hysterical at the slightest sign of discomfort from her. Brienne got up and allowed Catelyn to hold her in a long, gentle embrace.

As they hugged, she saw Jaime Lannister. He had hung back but was watching them. Catelyn pulled away and began to speak. Her voice felt muffled, like something out of a hazy dream. Brienne couldn’t stop noticing the damp, sweaty, tousled mess of Jaime’s Lannister’s golden hair. Of his chiseled, elegant, handsome features. She shivered suddenly, remembering how he had protected her in the ambulance to the best of his ability. She really hadn’t wanted to get rid of her pants but when Jaime touched her, much of her anxiety ebbed away.

“Let’s get you home, dear,” Catelyn told her, pushing her blond hair away from her face.

Home. Home was the studio she bought with the last of Selwyn’s money to have a modicum of security. Home was where her blue cello waited, and would wait until buried in dust.

The sexual assault would give her nightmares for years to come but what really hit her was the discovery of the crack on the face of cello. Brienne spent the day crying about this, for the blue cello was the last gift of Selwyn. It was all she had of her father. Then getting that call from the Marillion—

Home with its broken things was becoming a torment.

She doubted if she could take any more. After hearing about the Marillion, she had wandered around in a daze. She had no idea how it was to be within close range of a nuclear blast and to survive it, only to endure the fallout. This was how she felt—helpless and hurting more each day as the brokenness began to overwhelm her life. Home was a repository of broken things—her being the most damaged.

Jaime was watching her, his stare concerned, curious, expectant. It was an effort to look away so she could talk to Sansa. “Can we speak somewhere?”

“Sure.” Sansa said.

Brienne glanced at Jaime. He nodded, understanding. Sansa looked at them curiously before following her best friend down the hall.

“Sansa,” Brienne bit her lip, suddenly at a loss for words.

“Are you alright?” Sansa asked.

Gods, she was beginning to loathe that question. If by alright people meant she was one hundred percent on, they were in for a surprise. She was never going to be hone hundred percent on. Never again.

Brienne felt so hollow and empty. Everyday was a reminder of what she had lost. Of who was forever lost.

“Sansa, I can’t,” she blurted out.

“Can’t? What s it?”

“I can’t go home.” Brienne’s eyes watered at her admission. “I can’t. . .not after getting that call.”

“But Brienne—“ Sansa began to protest. Brienne shook her head.

“I just can’t. Not now.”

Then you stay with us, yes?”

Brienne shook her head slowly. Sansa frowned. “Brienne, no.”

“Sansa I need to breathe. I—I know how much you and your family care for me. I am grateful. But. . .I just can’t. It’s too much and I feel so dead inside.”

“Where would you go?” Sansa refused to give up. “Okay, you won’t go home with my family. I understand. But where will you go? And. . .you can’t be alone. You are one of the strongest persons I know. If not the strongest. But. . .you shouldn’t be alone, Brienne. You scared me today.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need an apology. I want my best friend safe.”

Brienne looked past her shoulder, her blue eyes colliding directly into Jaime’s green gaze.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't enjoy having Brienne suffer, okay? I really don't. 
> 
> Much of who Brienne is depends on her relationship with music. In spite of the apartment, her health, some money in the bank, and friends, her talent with the cello is all she has, something that is really, truly hers. So when the opportunity to fulfill her lifelong dream is snatched away cruelly, she unravels. As if getting sexually assaulted isn't enough to destroy someone. 
> 
> If you notice, Jaime and Brienne here are in the arts. Jaime is on the road to recovery. Whether he will be as successful as he used to be remains to be seen. Alcohol did come to destroying him so we see him struggling to get back on his feet and why he was so desperate to meet Brienne. But as you can see, her interest in her is going deeper than merely for the reason for his inspiration, his muse.
> 
> Brienne is pretty much where Jaime was years ago. The difference is, while it was Jaime's choice to turn to the bottle instead of dealing with his messed up relationship with Cersei in a much healthier way, what kills Brienne's dreams (in this installment, anyway) are forces beyond her control. The point is to show that love, dedication, passion and talent, discipline, can only bring you so far. You can not control the way of things. As to why people who have already suffered much must suffer further is a question that will never have a clear-cut answer. What one can only do is struggle and strive, and most importantly, hope. 
> 
> Brienne trusts Jaime. She is still needy of him (why wouldn't she be?) but she too is slowly realizing that this is the person who just seems to know her and understands her. He was upfront, thus gaining her trust quite easily.  
> ____
> 
> I'm sorry for taking so long to post an update. Life has been. . .well, think of the most insane amusement park ride and that's my life at the moment. Just when I think it's slowing down so I can hop off and maybe help myself to a corn dog, it speeds up again and I can only hold on. I like being busy but these days. . .yeah. Things are just fucking insane. 
> 
> I'll be uploading the last chapter tomorrow then we'll move on to Part 3.
> 
> Thank you!


	15. Heart of the Maiden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne spend the night together.

Despite the fever she was still nursing, Brienne managed to straighten up in her seat and scowl at the familiar building before her. Jaime was whistling, twisting the key off then unbuckling his seatbelt. She continued to glower at him as his long legs slid out of the car and he was turning around to close the door.

Sounding way too innocent, he remarked, “What is it?”

“When I said I needed to be alone, this isn’t what I had in mind.” Brienne remained in her seat.

“Sansa and the Starks only allowed you to be with me provided I keep you in sight. Since I’d rather shotgun lead paint than spend a minute in a fleabag motel, here we are.”

To her annoyance, Jaime shut the door and walked around the car towards the front door. Brienne’s scowl deepened.

The Starks had protested loudly against her plans. Catelyn shot Jaime a look so whithering it would send even the strongest and biggest man quaking in his shoes. Brienne had to intervene and introduce him. Sansa could have done a better job vouching for him but she didn’t approve of Brienne’s decision, either. But at least she was concerned and just being protective. Ned and Catelyn Stark would probably wrap her up in Kevlar from head to toe and implant a tracking device in her so they could monitor her. Their concern came from a good place but they were too much, sometimes.

Being a Lannister did not comfort the couple. Ned, a lawyer, knew about the Lannisters but he made it clear that a man’s unlimited gold was no guarantee for the safety and well-being of a woman whom he regarded as a daughter. He did know Jaime. Did not know Jaime’s intentions towards her. He only knew he wa there for Brienne on the night of the assault but really, what was he? Who was he?

Such questions were a waste of time and Brienne really needed to get away. She had to swear to the old gods and the new to call the Starks until she was back in her studio. Her apartment was truly depressing these days. Once spic and span, it was becoming a habit to leave dirty dishes stacked in the sink, for the bed to remain unmade for days. Then the cello, returned to her after she returned to King City, had a crack on its face that made it beyond repair. The cost of a new cello was going to cut what she had put away working this summer in half—if she dared touch the check Roose Bolton gave her.

Then she got the call that spelled the end of her world.

No, she couldn’t stay. There were too many memories of loss and pain there already.

“Jaime.” She rolled down the window and glared as he unlocked the door. “I told you I’ll be checking in at a hotel.”

“Yes. You did.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Just try tonight for size, wench.” Jaime told her. “If you still think it’s beneath you to be with me tomorrow, then I’ll drive you to a nice hotel.”

“That’s not what I—“

Jaime pushed open the door and stepped inside. Seeing that she was still in the car, he said, “Don’t forget to lock the door. And of course, close the door when you come here, wench.”

Her eyes flashed. “Brienne—“

Jaime smirked and turned to go inside the building.

There were two ways she could solve this, she told herself, fuming silently in the car. Take her bag and walk to the closest subway—she knew the area from her job at Mop Busters. Contrary to what Jaime had arrogantly claimed, she was not off to some fleabag motel. A standard room at The Silver Dragon would wipe out the money she had but there were reasonably-priced and well-maintained accommodations elsewhere. All she needed was some time to herself and shut off the rest of the world.

The other option was to take her bag and follow Jaime inside. It was the easiest thing to leave but if she did, there would be no peace. Sansa would barrage her with calls and texts all night. If she didn’t answer, Sansa would call the detective again. Brienne just wanted to. . .forget. Impossible as it was, if given a day where she could be away from the life she had been thrown to, maybe there was a chance. She hadn’t meant to worry Sansa or Jaime or the Starks by going incognito all the day.

 The Marillion’s refusal to let her audition was painful. Hours had passed but the pain had yet to be reduced to ripples. They were still sharp blows raining non-stop on her heart, as if determined to knock it out of its cavity. Music, playing the cello—the thing that made her truly happy. Now there was no way. . .what other institution would accept her now that her name was tainted in the worst possible way? Perhaps she should slink back to Tarth and forget. Or go elsewhere and forget. Change her name—why not? Start over.

Brienne took her bag from the backseat and stepped out of the car. Shouldering it, she stared at the building, suddenly realizing that however she chose at this moment was going to mark her for the rest of her life.

“Right. That’s the address. If it could be delivered in less than thirty minutes, I’ll tip fifty percent. Thank you,” Jaime was saying on the phone before hanging up. His back still faced her, showing her the thick waves of his golden blond hair, the wide and strong span of his shoulders. Brienne stared at him, her bag still slung on her shoulder until, probably sensing he wasn’t along, he turned around.

The smile that broke across his face rivaled the beauty of the sun rising in the horizon.

Brienne blushed and looked at her feet.

“Well. I knew you’d come to your senses. Come on. Take that bag with you, I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.” Jaime got off the stool and headed for the stairs.

Confused, Brienne gestured at the couch. “Don’t you mean here?”

“You’re taller and, not to insult you, wench, but you also have bigger shoulders. You won’t be comfortable there.”

“I’m not that much taller than you. You won’t be comfortable either.”

“You’re a guest.”

“Guests sleep on the couch.”

“Not mine.”

Brienne was about to retort when she realized what he meant. Cheeks flaring with heat, she sputtered, “B-But Jaime, it’s not right. I mean. . .it’s your bed.”

“One that you’ve made several times. Mop Busters still comes over but it’s a different person now, isn’t it? No hospital corners.” Jaime said, grinning.

“If you have a complaint you should call.” She told him.

“I wasn’t complaining. I just miss your touch, that’s all.” Despite how she was feeling, she tensed at his words. She knew he wasn’t being sexual or even seductive but there was something about Jaime. Maybe because he was that beautiful, and had a beautiful mouth, words had a way of coming off way sexier than they should be. Her cheeks pinked and Jaime, rolling his eyes in exasperation upon seeing them, said, “ Brienne, just take the fucking bed, will you? You’re being rude refusing my offer.” He was pretending to be offended. The sparkle in his eyes gave the game away.

Brienne blushed harder. She knew what he was doing but yeah, she _was_ being rude. “I’m sorry.”

“Alright. Finally, we’re in agreement about something. Pick up your big feet and follow me.”

Brienne sighed and went after him. Jaime jogged up the stairs ahead of her and was standing at the foot of the bed when she joined him.

“You know your way around here. Closet’s over there. Just pick your space, clear it if you must and put your things there. The bathroom, it’s downstairs—again, you know this. I hope you’ll be comfortable here, wench. It’s no Silver Dragon but if you really want, I can go to the store and get chocolates to put on your pillow before you sleep.” He was grinning again.

Jaime Lannister should be arrested for having that smile, Brienne thought, feeling herself getting all flustered again. His hair looked greasy and unwashed and he could use a shave but the scruffiness of his appearance hardly deterred his good looks. If anything, it emphasized just how handsome he was. _Like a half a god._

“Look at you all flushed,” he remarked. “Come here, will you?”

Brienne obeyed. To her surprise, Jaime yanked her down to sit beside him in bed. Then he pressed the back of his hand on her forehead, on her neck. His skin was warm and supple. Brienne felt the blush rising in her cheeks. She hoped he couldn’t feel the sudden race of her pulse.

“You’re warm. A little too warm.” He said, frowning. “I can run you a bath, if you like.”

“No. Please,” she said, shaking her head. She looked in his eyes. “You’ve already done too much, Jaime.”

“Not yet, wench.”

_“Brienne.”_

“As you say, my lady.” He said playfully. “Best you change into cool, more comfortable clothes, Brienne. I don’t know what you packed but you can also raid my closet if you want. WE look to be about the same size.”

“I’m sure I won’t have to do that, but thank you.” Brienne answered sincerely.

“Before I forget, I ordered pizza. You’re not a vegetarian or eat strictly organic or any of that bull, are you?” Judging from his grimace, he found the idea of being either distasteful.

“No. Thanks for ordering.”

“You’re welcome.” Suddenly, he pressed a kiss on her forehead and got up.  Brienne stared at him in  bewilderment as he spoke.

“Pizza won’t be here for a while. You can nap or read. I’ll just be downstairs working.”

“Sketching?”

He nodded.

“Oh.” She said. “I mean. . .” Flushing, she added, “I just. . .I can sit for you while we wait. If you want.”

“That will take more than thirty minutes. Some other time. I don’t like to rush,” he said, catching her eyes falling to her lap. “Are you alright?”

She nodded.

“Besides, you have to be in a certain mood to do it. I said I’d like to paint you but I’d rather we do it when you don’t look like a giant lobster.” She looked up, expecting a faltering in his gaze, his speech but he spoke with finality. _At least he didn’t say when you’re alright._ It went without being said she was never going to be alright. Not like how she was the day before the assault. Perhaps Jaime understood.

Suddenly, he bent and kissed her on the lips this time. They have kissed before but she tensed again. Her lips were too tender and cracked from being out in the sun too long. Jaime must have felt her reaction because he quickly pulled away, lips already forming an apology. Brienne shook her head. “No. It’s just. . .” she pointed at her swollen, cracked lips. “They’re really sensitive.”

Kissing Jaime was one of the few good things she had left. And, she was realizing, just being with him was making her problems so far away.

“Well, I am sorry for causing you discomfort. I guess for now this is all we can do.” So, another kiss on her forehead then he was gone.

While Jaime was downstairs, Brienne changed into  an old, bright blue t-shirt and lightweight drawstring pants. She stashed her bag in the closet then looked around the room. Except for a few books, Jaime did not appear to have a lot of paperbacks and volumes.

She was debating whether to wander downstairs when he called out that the pizza had arrived. Jaime was popping the box open when she joined him, releasing the rich aroma of pepperoni, cheese and spices. Brienne’s stomach rumbled loudly and Jaime laughed. “Would you like a plate or . . .?”

“Thanks, but eating right off the box is fine.”

“I only have soda, though. No wine or alcohol.”

“That’s okay. I’m not much of a drinker.” Alocohol reminded her of Hyle’s stinky apartment, and his breath.

They ate the pizza with only a few words passing between them. Brienne was starving and was grateful Jaime kept the conversation at minimum. Jaime didn’t appear to be that interested in talking much too. He must be tired after such a long day. She surely was.

She insisted on clearing the table and disposed the box in the dumpster at the back. He waited for her to come back, which was embarrassing. But Brienne kept her mouth shut because the intention was good.

“I don’t keep a TV in my room, if you notice. But if you want to watch, feel free to use the couch. I have Westflix too.” He told her.

“What about you?”

“I need a shower. Go on, I’ll follow.”

Brienne was actually feeling sleepy but since she had been rude earlier about his offer with the bed, she thought to take him up on the Westflix bit. She flicked on the TV and sat on the sofa.

But when Jaime found her fifteen minutes later, she was curled up on her side and sleeping soundly.

Brienne wasn’t as deeply asleep as she looked, however. She scented subtle peppermint, then the brush of a cool-warm flesh against her own. Opening her eyes, she peered up sleepily at Jaime.

His skin was still damp though he was wearing a threadbare t-shirt and a pair of baggy shorts. He was sitting on the couch, leaning over her and playing with a lock of her hair. The sensation of this touch, plus the mingled cool that remained on his skin after the shower, was soothing, almost a comfort. Brienne’s eyes closed again.

Jaime was still playing with her hair but her mind catapulted back to _that_ night.

She heard it again, her body slamming on the floor. The scuffling sound between their bodies as she struggled. Once again, Rooose Bolton was on top of her. Forcing her eyes to open was like being underwater and blocked by a ceiling of ice. She punched through with all her might, opening her eyes and gasping violently as she woke up.

Her vision clear, she saw Jaime had retracted his hand and was looking at her in horror. “B-Brienne?” For the first time since meeting him, his voice was shaky. “What happened?”

“I was there.” She didn’t have to elaborate what it meant anymore. “Again.”

Jaime continued to stare at her as she lay on her back, catching her breath. Her t-shirt was clinging to skin suddenly damp with sweat. “I’ll get you water,” he told her.

As she calmed down, Jaime returned with a tall glass of water, clinking with ice. She gulped it down quickly. She handed the glass to him and sat up. He joined her on the couch, watching as she curled her knees to her chest and hugged them.

“How often does this happen?” He asked.

Her shoulders sank. “Every night. Sometimes I scream.”

“Fuck, Brienne.” Jaime’s hand rose but he hesitated. Seeing this, Brienne took hish and pressed it to her cheek. It was cool from the glass of water.

“I can’t. . .I can’t forget. I want so much to forget. . .turn back time if I could. It follows me every hour. It’s worse when I sleep because. . .every time I find myself on my back it happens. And how can I control that?”

“Does Sansa know? Or the Starks?”

She nodded. “Also the detective. She gave me a number but. . .I don’t know. Talking about this in a roomful of strangers? I. . .I don’t know, Jaime.”

Walking the detective through the events of that night had been almost traumatic. Talking about it again in a room with strangers. . .Brienne was highly doubtful what it would do.

“Talking helps. I understand how hard it can be.” Jaime said after a moment of quiet. His hand was now touching her hair, caressing it as if it was silk rather than the tangled, damp mess it was. “Sometimes, it’s the hardest thing. Talking about it.”

Brienne looked at him. “What happened?”

Jaime’s smile was tired but gentle. “I was an alcoholic. I’ll be sober for seven years next week.”

“You did AA?”

“I still do. Every now and then. Especially when things get so stressful and I’m tempted to hit the nearest store and stock up. But unlike what happened to you, no one forced me to drink. Circumstances made me drink but in the end, it was still my choice.”

“But there’s only so much one can do,” Brienne managed to protest. Jaime was an alcoholic. She had no idea. “No one can know how one should respond.”

“I agree. But with my choice, I ended up hurting a lot of people who cared for me. You have nightmares. I still have cravings.”

Remembering what he said about stressful situations, she reddened. “Maybe I should go.”

Jaime glared at her. “And where would you go? Who will wake you up when you have another nightmare? Who will hold you until you calm down?”

Embarrassed, she looked away. Jaime used the hand caressing her hair to hold her gently by the nape and urge her to turn back to him. His gaze was bright but also imploring.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed, wench. I know what I do for you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for needing someone? Never apologize for that.” This time, his tone was bitter and she wondered what had happened to him. Circumstances made him drink, he said.

“We each have the right to need someone. When someone needs me, I’m there.”

“But—But why?” She asked, noticing that he was caressing her hair again. She tried to fight off the shiver of possible delight rushing down her spine. “I—We haven’t known each other long.”

“You were quick to trust me.”

Remembering how she had uncharacteristically stripped and dared him not to mock her, she bowed her head.

“I didn’t,” she whispered. That person was so far away from who she had become.

He smiled softly. “Not at first.”

“You said such idiotic things.” Something that seemed to fondness laced her tone. “And I was. . .I was tired. I was so tired of being the subject of ridicule and bets because of what I look like. You were supposed to be disgusted and insult me. You were supposed to leave and we’ll never hear of each other again. Instead. . .” she took a deep breath, suddenly flustered. “Instead you kissed me. W-Why is that?”

She watched a series of emotions pass Jaime’s face. Confusion. Astonishment. Amusement. She hugged her knees tighter as a smile tugged at the corners of his lips again, the grooves framing his lips deepening. When he gave her the full force of his smile, then his eyes, he had a kind of look that was a combination of fondness and warmth. She couldn’t name it, exactly.

“I dreamed of you.”

He said it with both wonder and surprise. Blinking at his words, he cleared his throat and swiped a finger behind her ear, once again drawing a shiver from her. “Yes, indeed. I dreamed of you.” This time, he was more sure.

Brienne shook her head. “It must have been a nightmare.”

“On the contrary.”

She squirmed and shifted away from his touch. Jaime quickly retracted his hand. “I’m sorry. I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

“No.” She met his stare so he would know she was being honest. “It’s. . .it’s been a long night. . .” Her voice faltered upon seeing that the hands of the clock were approaching the half hour past nine. Blushing, she made to get up. “I’m hogging the couch when you’ve given me such a nice bed.”

She stood up and he stood up too. “Good night, Jaime.”

She turned to leave when he suddenly asked, “How many times. . .the dreams. Do they keep you up?”

She winced. “I manage.”

“Would you like me to be there?” At her puzzled look, Jaime suddenly blushed. “Er. . .I mean. . .if it’s alright with you. I can sleep beside you. I promise I don’t snore. I won’t steal the blankets or hog the pillows.”

Brienne bit her lip. There was no reason to doubt or fear Jaime—he had been there for her and at times even fought to be with her. It was mortifying that he knew what his touch, his very presence could do to her. He had already been put out enough with her stealing his bed but the idea of him being with her for the night, protecting her from nightmares—she wanted to sleep. A dreamless sleep was becoming unthinkable.

“If you don’t want to that’s alright. But I know how it is with bad dreams.” He said, a strange look coming into his eyes. “There are time when having someone with you makes it easier. I just thought to offer, wench. You don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to. I swear it.”

The way Jaime said things did a lot to her. Either she overread them as overly sexual and seductive or heard them as knightly vows. The man did have a habit of swearing to keep his word.

“Uh, I’d like to try.” She said shyly. “If. . .yeah. I’d like to try.”

“Okay.”

Jaime turned off the TV and bade her to precede him.

There was no awkwardness in deciding who will go on a certain side of the bed. Brienne fell on the right, Jaime shooting her a smile and quickly folding his body to take the left. The bed was king-sized but with their broad shoulders and long legs, they fit the bed just about. Brienne turned on her side while Jaime remained on his back. She stared at the light on the bedside table.

“Um,” she began, flushing again. “Is it okay to sleep with the light on?”

“Of course.”

She closed her eyes.

But ten minutes later, Jaime let out an annoyed-sounding huff. “Look, if you don’t want this I’m leaving. I don’t want you to do something you don’t want, Brienne. I’m not that guy.”

“No,” she turned and saw him about to leave. “It’s. . .” Yes, Jaime in bed with her should be comforting but it wasn’t enough. She needed more. “I don’t. . .Would you hold me?”

Jaime looked at her. “Is that what you want?”

“I need you to.” Her whisper was a helpless, defeated sound of breath and barely-words.

Jaime was back at her side and moving. She turned again and sighed as his hand fell on the straight line of her waist. Blushing again, she whispered, “No, Jaime. Really, I need. . .I need you to hold me. Please?”

He circled his arm fully around her waist, drawing her close enough that she felt his chest moving behind her as he breathed. She stilled for a moment, realizing that this was the very rhythm of Jaime Lannister. Steady and sure. Unbreakable. Her hand lowered to clasp the arm that was wrapped firmly around her.

Never. She had never done this but. . .it felt familiar. Like this was their way from the beginning.

Jaime nuzzled her hair. The tip of his nose bumped the back of her ear. “Sleep, wench.”

“Brienne.”

“Hmm. Yes.”

She closed her eyes.

Probably a minute later, they flew open. Gasping, she demanded, “Jaime. . .?”

“I’m sorry!” He sounded angry. He removed his arm from her and turned away, leaving her cold and alone despite being mere inches from her. She turned to see his back hard and tight with tension.

“This has nothing to do with you,” he muttered, still refusing to face her. “It’s just. .. I haven’t been with anyone for a while. Gods, Brienne. I’m so sorry. Look, I’m going back to the couch, alright? Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.” He sounded really apologetic. He groaned and stood up.

This has nothing to do with you. She knew he wasn’t being mean but the words stung. Not as much as they should, however. He had called her ugly, the only one to do so matter-of-factly. He made her forget she was ugly. But now. . .she wished she wasn’t.

If she were beautiful would Jaime had said what he said?

_He did say once that obvious beauty could be boring._

Brienne turned and swallowed at the sight of Jaime fully aroused. His shorts didn’t appear to be that old but the fabric and the seams were straining to keep his erection tucked and inside. She looked away, ashamed at what she saw. Sweat broke out from her neck and chest. 

“Look at this.” Jaime wasn’t through berating himself. “Fucking insensitive cock. Cocks really don’t have brains, that I’m sure about now.”

“It’s alright.” At that, he looked at her. She tried to be casual and shrugged. “It’s not like you did it on purpose. As you said. . .cocks. . .don’t have brains.”

She was blushing as she spoke. But she had to speak. “Please, Jaime. Stay. I—I don’t mind. I know. . .it’s not for me.”

He gave her a strange look and she added, “I know what I look like.”

He grunted, “We’re not back to that again, are we?”

“I just meant I’m not offended. Nor will I scream and accuse you. . .I know you’re not. . .you’re not like all men, Jaime. Come back, please?”

He glared at his crotch. “I have to take care of this first.”

She blushed, probably the hardest she had tonight.

Later, she would blame the words she uttered next on exhaustion, embarrassment, and a desperation to show gratitude. Throw in what had happened in recent weeks and she clearly wasn’t in her right mind. At the very least, it wasn’t good ol’ boring, shy Brienne speaking those words:

“Maybe. . .I can help you. . .take. . care of. . .it.”

She was looking at her hands as she spoke. The words tumbled and tripped out of her dry mouth and she hoped Jaime misheard. Or he had already gone off and it was air that heard. But when she finally raised her eyes, he was still there. A dumbfounded expression was on his face.

“What do you mean,” he took a deep breath and Brienne _saw_ his cock harden some more. “Take care of it?”

“I mean, if you don’t want to—“

“I’m not saying I don’t want to. But you’re going to have spell out exactly what you think you can do for this fucking state I’m in. Because when I get back to bed, Brienne, I’m going to have expectations and I don’t want. . .I don’t want you scared. I don’t want you thinking I’m taking advantage. I can’t stand it if you have one ill thought about me.”

“I’m not scared! I don’t. . .you will not be taking advantage.”

“I swear to the Seven if you’re giving me a hand job out of gratitude I’d throw myself out of the window.”

“Gratitude has nothing to do with it,” she snapped. “You have my word.”

They glared at each other until, with a long, drawn-out sigh, Jaime returned to her side. Brienne quickly got on her knees and reached for the waistband of his shorts. Jaime slapped her hand. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What the fuck are _you_ doing?”

“Wench.” He grinned as she bristled at that name. “Yes, my cock hurts like a motherfucker but. . .well, if it’s not too much to ask, I’d like other things too.”

“Such as?”

“Kisses.”

Brienne grabbed his shorts again. Jaime stilled her hands yet again and pointed at his firm lips. “Here.”

She paled, nodded, and pressed her lips there. Then she pulled away and reached for his shorts again. Jaime groaned.

“I said kisses. And that was horrible. You’ve kissed me better, wench.”

“Brienne.”

“Yes, you’ve kissed me better.” He smiled. “You’re ugly, yes, but fuck, you are fun to kiss. That mouth of yours. Big and wide. Thick lips.”

None of his descriptions would make her swoon because she wasn’t the swooning type but they stirred things in her. Warm stirring and fluttering around her tummy. Blushing, she leaned over him and tenderly brushed her lips against his.

Once.

Twice.

Jaime whispered, “Brienne.”

He grabbed the collar of her t-shirt and hauled her closer, mashing his mouth to hers.

With every kiss, Brienne felt herself lifting off the bed. Higher and higher, until her problems and fears, the rest of Westeros were so small and insignificant. Almost all of Westeros, for Jaime was still in her arms, groaning her name and kissing her back with a fervor that made the stirring in her stomach flare into a series of conflagrations. None of the kisses she’d had come close to how she was feeling now. There was freedom. There was probably even desire—for her.

And she wanted Jaime.

Hyle who forced kisses on her, awakening her to new sensations that were somewhat pleasant at first before she realized there was something more. He was her first but she already sensed what she was missing out on.

Roose who also forced kisses on her. Cold, cruel kisses that made her wish for death.

The warmth of Jaime’s mouth, the lazy, almost languorous swipes of his tongue across her chapped lips and inside her mouth, her tongue, was what she never thought to feel but what she now knew she had been tragically denied. Men who kissed to conquer paid no heed for what you wanted. Jaime, kissing her hungrily yet also with care. Guiding her and giving her time to adjust, waiting for her to follow.

Her hand climbed to his chest, resting on his heart. It was beating frantically. He breathed her name between licking and kissing, his hand resting atop hers. His cock rose and prodded insistently at her thigh.

“Jaime.”

Suddenly, he tore his mouth away from her. His eyes were wild. “Do you want to stop? Brienne, just stay the word. I don’t—I don’t want—“

She shook her head and cradled his face in both hands to kiss him. He groaned and kissed her back. Together they drank from each other to satiate a deep thirst.

He touched her back, drawing random, tingle-inducing circles through the t-shirt. As she nipped his lips, breathing loudly, Jaime chuckled and held her close. He raked his teeth across her jaw and she shivered, holding tightly to his shoulders.

“You’re so red,” he whispered, touching her cheek.

She didn’t know what to say to that.

She just held him as his lips warmed her neck,, his nose and cheeks rubbing against her chest. The cocoon of comfort enveloping them receded a bit as Jaime rested his forehead between her breasts. Brienne stiffened, hating that she remembered, that even awake she was going back to that night. Jaime must have sensed it too because he looked at her.

“Brienne, if you’re uncomfortable. . .we can stop.”

She was getting scared but not of Jaime. It was the memories. Being with Jaime should keep them away. She held him closer and shook her head. “Please, Jaime.” The kiss she gave him was urgent and pleading. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t.”

“Not until you tell me to. You only have to say the word, alright?”

She kissed him on the neck this time, gently pushing him back towards the pillows as she moved down his body. When her hands skimmed his shorts again, he let out a harsh sound and took them away.

“Why?” She asked.

“This isn’t about me,” he said, his voice rough and his eyes nearly black. Then he held her tight and flung her down his side, putting her on her back.

Brienne froze. _Not again._

“No.” She managed to whisper as fear began to seize her throat. She shook her head and nearly wept when he suddenly stopped touching her. “Just. . .Jaime. I can’t. Not on my back. Not yet. It’s. . .I remember.”

“Shit. Of course.” He kissed her in apology. “Come here.”

He rolled on his back again so she was on top of him. “Better?”

She nodded. But Jaime, still holding her, hauled them to a sitting position. _Oh._ “I—I like this.”

“Good.” He smiled at her in relief. “Me too.” He cupped her breasts briefly, skimmed down her straight waist. An eager squeeze of her rump, startling a laughter out of her. Another smile from.him, more beautiful than the last before he drew her close. Brienne dove into emerald depths.

 

They kissed again. While Jaime kept his gentle, Brienne attacked his mouth. She could feel it—could see it—the images assaulting her, the sensations, the violence. They touched her like air but she remembered. Oh, gods, she remembered. She gripped his t-shirts, needing his skin, his warmth. Jaime seemed to nod and pulled it off. The short separation between them made her whimper in fear and she threw her arms around him.

As her throat was seizing, Jaime kissed her there. Instantly, the cold sensation melted away. She sensed his hesitation in touching her breast and she froze, waiting if he would actually do it.

His cupped her breast through the t-shirt. Then his head followed, lowering to press a kiss there. Brienne almost wept as his tongue circled the nipple that Roose had viciously bitten, drawing blood. Jaime was not making any attempt to discard her t-shirt but she needed to feel. Need his lips, _him_ , to erase the violence there that still haunted her. Squirming his arms, she reached for the bottom of her t-shirt and pulled it up.

The look of surprise on Jaime’s face was so worth it.

And for once, she wasn’t embarrassed about her small breasts. Or how they were mere rises of flesh, hardly meriting their name. But she was still blushing because she had never willingly showed herself like this to anyone before. Only with Jaime. _Just Jaime._

He looked at her as if for permission before returning his lips to her breasts. _Oh._

He licked around the aureole of one breast while his hand cupped the other and pinched it nipple. He kissed, gave long, leisurely licks, sucked hungrily on her fat nipple while playing with her other breast. The combination of his kisses and touches was making her burn, and she was wet. She could feel the thick slickening of her cunt, soaking through her pants. As Jaime lost himself sucking and kissing her nipples, she worked a hand between them to scoop his cock out of his shorts.

As her fingers feathered the first of the many touches there, he drew her nipple hard into his mouth.

As he sucked, she stroked him, fondled his balls, spread the pre-cum at the tip down the long, thick length. Hyle had been the one to teach her but with Jaime, it felt like this was the first time she was doing this ever. She didn’t know what he liked, basing his reactions on how his kisses would speed up or falter, or his sucking ranging from hunger to gentle. He was gauging her reactions too, judging from how she touched him.

She was panting over his head as he continued worshipping her breasts with lips and tongue when she felt his cock stiffening. Jaime suddenly released her nipple, groaning as he spilled on her hand. Brienne gasped, dropping her eyes to watch her hand moving at its own volition, rubbing aggressively as it milked his cock. Jaime groaned, throwing his head back.

Then he startled her with what he said next. Or the way he said it. So raw. So much need and desire.

_“Brienne. Brienne.”_

He slumped back on the pillows. Brienne watched him sigh, his Adam’s apple bobbing, groan again.”Seven hells,” he gasped. “Seven hells, that was good. Fuck. _Fuck_.”

Brienne didn’t realize she was also breathing fast until she heard it. Then Jaime was looking at her in a way that made her blush and squirm, reminding her of what was going on below her waist.

“Will you take off your pants for me, wench?”

To Brienne’s surprise, she was quick to obey. She blushed because he would find out that not only did she not have underwear but she was also _soaked._ Jaime grabbed her by hand and had her on top of him again. As she wondered what would happen next, he smiled and very politely, asked her to sit on his face.

Shocked, she blurted out, “What?”

Her response made him backtrack. “Sorry. I thought you’d be okay. It’s fine.”

“N-No. It’s just that. . .” She glanced at herself then him. Back to herself again. Her thighs were massive and she was a good deal heavier than Jaime. What he was asking her to do was going to kill him.

“I’m—I’m big. I’ll hurt you.” She whispered, humiliated.

“Ridiculous.” He declared.

“I—I can—on my back?”

He shook his head. “You said you’re not comfortable.”

“Jaime, I’ll hurt you!”

“And again, you’re being ridiculous. Trust me. You trust me, right?”

She nodded.

“Then let me show you how trust _ought_ to be rewarded.” He sounded. . .kingly. At least, one who wouldn’t be denied.

And Brienne so wanted to please him.

“Do you trust me?” He asked her again, this time earnestly.

“I do.”

“Then please.” He lay flat on the bed. “Get on, wench.”

She glared. _“Brienne.”_

He chuckled. “Of course.”

But she refused to budge. “Why are you doing this?”

Jaime stared back at her. “Why?”

Despite her arousal, and her need for more of his kisses, his touch, the desperation to get away from memories, Brienne stood her ground. “You won’t let me touch you before out of gratitude. I won’t have it if that’s why you’re doing. Or pity. Don’t you dare, Jaime. I know what I look like—“

“Not that again!”

“I know!” She repeated. “I know. All my life people have been. . .repulsed by me. Men. . .men have always wanted to hurt me. Except you. You’re the only one who’s honest and accept me as I am. You’ve been there for me without agenda, I think. I know what I am, Jaime. I will never be the same after what’s happened but don’t you dare pity me or do any favors for me. _I won’t have it_ —“

Her tirade ended in a gasp and moan as Jaime’s mouth fell on her. Instead of resisting him, as she thought she should, her arms went around his shoulders. Her legs climbed to his sides before her ankles crossed at the middle of his back. Clinging to him like this, she fell on her back on the bed, taking him with her.

She should freeze. She should be terrified. Every time she found herself on her back she was in the study again, weakly fending off Roose’s assault as she fought to remain conscious. This time, it was only Jaime. Jaime who looked at her right in the eye, Jaime who saw everything about her. Jaime who had saved her in ways he could never imagine.

When he was with her, she could forget. _She was free._

“Brienne,” he breathed, pulling away briefly to look at her. She stared at him wordlessly, her hold on him firm.

“I want you.”

She bit her lip.

“I hope that’s alright, wench.”

He didn’t give her time to answer; he kissed her once more.

Brienne wished he would never stop kissing her.

When before the others had forced and violated her, Jaime kissed and touched her as he had said—he wanted her. His mouth was hungry and possessive around her nipples, unable to get enough of them but not once did she think of pulling him away. She arched her back and offered herself as best she could, moaning in pleasure for the first time.

He kissed her wrists, her hands, shoulder, returned to her breasts before trailing more down her navel. Brienne bit back a laugh as he licked her belly button, and gasped as he raked his teeth across her hipbone. As Jaime’s hair fanned across her stomach as he nuzzled her there, she realized how nothing of being with him was anything to being with anyone.

At Jaime’s wordless, gentle urging, her leg opened and he put himself there. She was red and hot as he sucked on the firm flesh of her inner thighs. His fingers traced the long length of her legs before delving under her knees to spread her wide open. Brienne, breathing quickly and sharply, dared to look as Jaime lowered his head toward her cunt. She froze.

He was watching her.

Then his mouth opened and licked her long, hairy seam.

Brienne cried out, stunned at the contact. This wasn’t the first time but it was insane what he was doing to her. He licked and kissed her swollen folds, breathed the secret scent of her sodden curls. She tried to thrash and buck but Jaime was holding her hands, their fingers laced through each other’s. She could only whimper and sob as he bestowed kiss upon kiss on that part of her that men had tried to hurt, the heart of her that men thought their right to crush and play with because she was the ugliest creature around.

She remembered. But with Jaime doing what he was doing, it was like she was slowly stirring awake from a long, bad dream.

His tongue was firm as it plunged inside her, discovering her secret flavor, her hidden curves. She gasped and mewled, still holding his hands as she felt herself flying, rising non-stop.

Then Jaime claimed her clitoris with his lips and she groaned, feeling like a rocket launched to the sky.

Her body was still trembling from the aftershocks, barely registering that Jaime was no longer on op of her. Turning her head weakly, she watched as tore a packet open and pulled out a condom. He hissed, sliding it down his cock. Brienne blushed, looking away until he was back in her arms and kissing her again.

Then to her surprise, he was turning. She frowned upon finding herself straddling his hips, his smiling eyes looking up at her.

“What are you doing?” She asked.

“Whatever you want.” He answered simply, his hands going up and down her arms.

What did she want? This man.

And for this freedom to be without end.

Her heart, which resumed its normal, steady beating, kicked hard and nearly painfully in her chest. _Whatever you want._ He was not forcing himself on her again, but giving her the choice to go on or not. Brienne bent to kiss him. It was enough of an answer.

She took his cock in hand, missing the warmth and hating the rubber between their flesh. She was tensed and she could tell Jaime that they could switch. He should be in her position but if she were on her back, she wouldn’t manage this. She might remember.

Taking a deep breath, Brienne raised her hips and tentatively lowered herself toward his cock.

Jaime’s expression was one of torture but he limited himself to just touching her arms, her breasts. He watched her squirm and struggle. Her cunt was wet, the passage slick and ready but just having his cockhead inside was a feeling of such fullness. How was she going to get the rest of him inside her?

“Relax,” Jaime told her. “Give it time.”

She nodded. Sweating profusely, she pumped up and down his cock, biting her lip at the slickness of rubber inside her. As her cunt became accustomed to the stretch his cock needed, she lowered herself some more.

It happened quickly. A pop of pain flaring inside her cunt. Brienne cried out, freezing. Jaime stared at her, stunned.

“What the—Brienne,” he growled, closing his eyes briefly as she completely lowered herself on his cock. Gods, it wasn’t as painful anymore but still. Despite the reprimand promised in his tone, he opened his eyes and seized her hips. He helped her move up and down his cock.

“You should have told me,” he whispered raggedly as her motions sped up. He grabbed her by the nape and buried his tongue in her mouth. She moaned and kissed him back, just stopping long enough to tell him the truth. 

“I didn’t want to stop.”

There would be repercussions later. That she was sure of. But for now, being with Jaime, having him inside her, she felt that she could live.

_Again._

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're probably wondering, where did that come from?
> 
> Keep in mind that despite having sincere intentions, Jaime and Brienne are not thinking straight. We don't see Jaime's thoughts here, that's for the first chapter of Part Three. With Brienne having a really emotional and physically trying day, well, it's hardly a good idea to have sex with someone, even when you trust him. Being with Jaime makes her forget and for now, this is all she's focused on. This is a long chapter so you might have missed the part where he asks if she talks to someone because she really does. 
> 
> I'm not blaming Brienne. Or Jaime. There's no blame here. But before the comments roll in how someone who's in her situation wouldn't be interested in sex, let me remind you that everyone is different. She's learned that being with Jaime gives her some protection so that's her primary motivation behind having sex with him. Secondary is realizing that being with Jaime is a lesson on how it is to be wanted, and she's reminded just how cruel men had been to her. Is she attracted to him? Definitely, but she doesn't know it yet. Brienne has a long way to go before admitting something like this. They both do.
> 
> While her reasons may relegate Jaime to being merely a-dick-on-call, Jaime's thoughts in previous chapters should also give you an idea on how he functions. He's there to serve and help. He's just there. You'll see in the third installment that the very thing that describes Jaime is what drives him toward a very inappropriate relationship with his sister.
> 
> When he's with Brienne, he knows he makes her feel better. He is attracted to her but he doesn't know either. For now, they're together because their needs complement the other's. 
> 
> ____  
> What happens next? 
> 
> Stay tuned for PART THREE.

**Author's Note:**

> Change the title from Beauty in the Light to Sapphire Most Rough :-)


End file.
